Saving Satine
by Lady M and Queen RoseMarie
Summary: Completely Revised! Christian goes up the Tower steps and gets more than he bargained for. Chapter 16 now posted
1. Chapter 1

**Saving Satine - Revised 10/25/07 - Lady M & Queen Rosemarie**

authors note - this is a complete revision of the original fic. We had to delete the original chapters, thus all the reviews were lost. Our apologies to the original reviewers who took the time to praise or blame, and our thanks to the fans who have stuck with us while the story was on hiatus and have encouraged us to continue. All three of you. You know who you are.

**Prologue - Collaboration**

"Christian?" Satine rose from the narrow bed in her lover's garret and laid the latest draft of Act Two next to his typewriter. Christian leaned forward in the room's single, rickety chair besides the writing table. "In the end, the courtesan and the sitar player are going to end up together, aren't they?"

"Of course they do, darling! And triumph over all obstacles!" He gestured expansively before curling one hand around her forearm and pulling her into down into his lap. The chair beneath them creaked only slightly from the additional burden, but it was a sound the poet and the courtesan were well-accustomed to.

"Very well, but then what happens?"

"They live happily ever after."

"Yes, but that's the fairy tale." She looked him in the eye and captured his hand in hers, "But what happens for real?" She spoke softly, but with deadly seriousness in her voice.

He swallowed, and started to look away. Then, suddenly, inspiration came: "Why don't you tell me what happens to them?"

"What? I'm not a writer?" She gasped, taken aback.

Christian chuckled and blushed slightly. "But you have a very vivid…imagination." His eyes strayed to the rumpled sheets and his blush deepened even as a wicked grin stole across his face.

Satine mock-slapped at him. "Why, young _M'sieur _James! What a scandalous thing to say!" She laughed and shook her head, but her eyes were suddenly bright with the fire of creativity. Christian felt rather pleased with himself for having avoided giving her an answer, as well as planting the germ of an idea in her head. His mind immediately painted the picture of the two of them, years into the future: he at the typewriter, she circling him slowly as they bounced ideas back and forth between them…

Christian wondered if one's heart could truly burst from happiness – if so, it wouldn't be a bad way to go.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Advantages of Narcolepsy [Final**

"We have to end it!" The Hindu Courtesan whispered urgently as she leaned forward, and clasped the Penniless Sitar Player' hand.

He leaned in likewise, and then gestured out grandly at the horizon with his free arm. "Fear not, we will conduct our love affair right under the Maharajah's…"

But his plan, however brilliant it might have been, went no further before his eyes rolled up in his head - and the Narcoleptic Argentinean tumbled backward from his chair in a fit of sleep.

"Honestly, amigo, this is impossible!" Harold shouted even though there was no way the unconscious man could hear him. He leapt to his feet, waved his script in irritated dismissal, and looked down his nose at Rico with the expression of a man who had just trod in horseshit. "My dear Duke," He bowed obsequiously, "Please accept my apologies for the interruption."

The Duke sighed dramatically as he rose from his seat on a raised dias, near the former nightclub's private booths, and tried to see through the crowd that swiftly gathered around the fallen actor. Christian had already leapt from his stool at the sidelines and gracefully bounded to the actor's side; he was soon hidden from the Duke's sight by the jumble of dancers and bohemians that surrounded Rico. Meanwhile Nini, the ebony-haired dancer who had been buzzing around the Duke all morning, attempting to massage his shoulders and whispering ingratiating nonsense in his ear despite his best attempts to flick her away, swept past him hurridly and likewise was lost to the Duke's sight in the crowd.

With the ease that came from apparent experience, Satie and the "Doctor" grabbed the Argentinean's shoulders and feet and carried him to a booth on the opposite side of the room from the Duke. Toulouse hobbled behind, shouting as always his useless directions, waving his cane in a circle to ward off anyone who dared come too close. "Back away, everyone; give the man room to breathe!"

Admittedly the sight of the frail, nearsighted composer, the aged pyrotechnician and crippled dwarf painter struggling with the actor's long limbs as they struggled to slide him into a booth was highly amusing at first. But the Duke quickly became bored by the spectacle and turned his attention away from the bohos, scanning the faces in the crowd for a glimpse of Satine. Ah, there she was; he too had risen from her chair, but she made no motion to follow Rico with the rest of the crowd, as she seemed engaged in coversation with the young writer. Bare inches separated them – he even had the presumptuousness to to place his hand on her elbow – as she nodded intently while he whispered in her ear. What liberties that boy took with her!

"My dear Duke!" Zidler blocked his path before he could approach the pair. "Again, I do apologize for the interruption, but I have no doubt he'll be up and about mometarily."

The nobleman cast a cold gaze around the unfinished auditorium and wondered whatever had possessed him to squander his money on this ridiculous little show. "I shouldn't wonder if my champagne was spiked with absenthe the night I agreed to invest…" He mused just under his breath, as he tried to see past the portly impresario.

"I beg your pardon, my dear D-"

"You had us worried, my friend!" The lisping voice of the little painter rose above the general din, and distracted the Duke and Zidler so that both men turned to see what was happening.

The bohos had indeed managed to sit Rico upright, if not raise him to his feet; the Argentinean's eyes were open, but his stare was hazy and unfocused. "No problem," Rico announced, sounding far more confident than he looked, "Everyone go back to wor –"

His eyes rolled backward a second time, and the noise of his head hitting the back wall of the booth distracted Christian and Satine from one another. The poet hurried away from her, and leaned across the table to help the others of his little gang lift their twice-fallen comrade. The writer's loose trousers tightened across his buttocks and his dark vest and shirt did the same across his shoulders as he strained with his burden.

To his complete and utter surprise, The Duke could not tear his eyes away from this arresting vision. Yes, he'd been aware of the boy's existence, but as little more than a glorified servant. He carried the blanket and basket on picnics, or rowed the boat, but other that, he was mostly an annoyance. It had never occurred to the Duke before that boy was attractive in and of himself. And yet for a full minute he could think of nothing else but Christian's graceful form. That boy was a true Adonis in the flesh, the nobleman mused. Surely, the ancient Greeks, with their customary appreciation for the beauty of male flesh, would have composed odes and erected marble temples in honor of such a comely lad…!

"As I was saying, my dear Duke –" Zidler rudely interrupted the nobleman's reverie. "We shall have our friend up and about in just a moment." The impresario's mustache twitched nervously over a broad and patently fake smile.

"I think we should consider replacing the Argentinean with a more reliable actor, Zidler. Perhaps -perhaps the boy could take on the role."

"'The boy'? Your Grace I don't understa…" Harold followed the direction of the Duke's gaze until his own eyes landed on the poet's backside. "Christian? That's impossible – he's the writer and director, after all; he can't conceivably be the lead actor as well. It's unheard of." He slid his arm around the Duke's shoulders in a too-familiar gesture until a stern glare put him in his place. "Just wait until you see Rico onstage – his natural charisma and animal magnetism will cause all the ladies in the audience to go wild! They'll weep and swoon at the very sight of him!"

"I hardly see how that's possible - right now the only one swooning IS the leading man."

Zidler flushed a shade of red to outdo his hennaed hair. "Ah, _tres amusant_, my dear Duke-" He chuckled nervously.

"All right, everyone," Christian's voice echoed across the cavernous auditorium. "On three – one, two, three – that's the way!" Miraculously, they managed to hoist Rico into the arms of the large Moorish dancer Chocolat, who shifted the Argentinean in his arms to cradle him more securely.

"I've got him," Chocolat confirmed.

Christian nodded thoughtfully. "You'll take him across the street to the studio, won't you? Thank you, Chocolat, I'll be there momentarily." He watched the dancer carry his burden only towards the exit toward the front doors; Nini and the other bohemians followed in his wake.

"Now see here!" Harold bellowed, bringing the motley parade to a sudden halt. He flipped his hand towards the front of the auditorium, where a stablehand held the reins of a large white mare. "You can't just take him away – we've yet to rehearse the "Lover's Escape" scene!"

"Really Harold, what do you suggest we do?" Satine purred as she stepped forward and wound her slender arms around her employer's stout limb. "Prop the poor fellow on the horse while he's asleep and tie him to the saddle? And who's going to say his lines, hmmm? I can do many things, but exchanging dialogue with an unconscious man is beyond even my talents."

"It ain't _dialogue_ she's used to exchangin' anyway." Nini muttered out of the side of her mouth, causing a round of vulgar titters and cackles to erupt from the other girls. Satine narrowed her eyes, but otherwise ignored the comment.

"Where is _Senor _Rico's understudy, then?" the Duke demanded.

"Ah yes, well, the understudy…that is…." Zidler fumbled.

"There ain't one." Nini announced.

The Duke's eyes bulged with rage. "Zidler, really, this show will never be ready on time!"

"I can assure you, however –"

"Enough nonsense! I'm tired of these delays, Zidler! Time is money – my money, to be precise."

"Of course, m-my dear –"

"Your Grace," Christian broke in quietly, "everything is preceding on schedule, even with this minor delay. The dancers are swiftly mastering their routines, and _Mademoiselle_ Satine knows the script backward and forward by heart."

The Duke shook his head. "What good is it for her to know the script 'by heart', if you keep making constant changes?"

"Her ability to learn new lines is extraordinary." The boy stated simply, "I have personally watched her memorize an entire scene within a quarter-of-an-hour."

"Of course I have confidence in the lady's abilities, so I am willing to accept that she can adapt, but that still does not deal with the problem of our comatose leading man." The Duke sneered.

Christian glanced at the man in question, a slight grimace crossing his features, before a sudden light of inspiration dawned in his eyes, "My friend here only loses consciousness when he is nervous, Your Grace. Once he has learned his lines completely, his problem will vanish."

Toulouse cut in front of Christian and grinned up at the Duke. "Yes! This is true; I have seen it myself in him many times!"

The Duke was certainly not inclined to take the little painter on faith regarding any matters of substance, but Christian's calm nod of confidence, paired with the frank, open gaze of those changeable green-grey eyes, was another matter altogether. Damn it, no matter how nonsensical the boy could be at times, the nobleman found that he could not help but believe every word that dripped from his tongue – or maybe it was the poet's boyish grin that carried the day.

"Oh very well then, if you are certain he will be able to play his part when the time comes?" The Duke raised his eyebrows.

"I am certain of it, your Grace. If necessary I will spend extra time working with him myself." Christian gave a little bow.

Zidler clapped his hands together, "Well, that's settled then! If you gentlemen will get our Argentinean friend situated comfortably, we can resume our work on another scene."

"For once I believe there will be no harm in calling it off a little early this afternoon," Christian interrupted. "In fact, I daresay it will do us all a bit of good."

A sudden hush settled over the normally-chatty players as they stood in a ragged semi-circle around the men, and all eyes focused on the Duke and Zidler, as they eagerly awaited a decision.

"Christian you can't be serious! As our dear Duke has just pointed out, time is money." Zidler exclaimed, "How can we possibly break now?"

"Harold," Satine directed her words to her employer but let her gaze fall on the Duke, "Surely you don't think his Grace is more concerned with money than the welfare of his actors, do you?" Satine smiled at the Duke and winked naughtily, offering a soupçon of future pleasures.

The Duke felt his cheeks – and his nether regions – flush with warmth, and suddenly all thought of the boy's comely features were pushed aside. Yes, come to think of it, an early supper with the most beautiful woman in all of Paris might just be the thing, indeed. He might as well take advantage of the situation as it presented itself.

"I think the lady has a point, Zidler." The Duke inclined his head to Satine and held out his arm for her. She returned his nod as she curled her arm around his elbow.

The impresario clearly knew when he'd been outnumbered. "All right, everyone, rehearsals are over for the day. We'll start again tomorrow morning at 7:00 a.m. sharp." Whoops and cheers followed this announcement as the cast trooped merrily out the exit to the street, following Chocolat and his still-comatose burden.

"What about Buttercup?" The coarse, sturdy voice of the stablehand interrupted the cacophany of shouts and laughter. Harold and the Duke turned as one to look at the short, well-muscled fellow of uncertain age, clad in woolen knickers and vest, a shapeless felt cap and a threadbare cotton shirt. Beside him stood the horse in question, a plump white mare who munched complacently on the green top of a carrot and appeared to be thoroughly unimpressed with her surroundings. "You said you was going to need her today, and I've been standing here since early morning just like you requested. T'isn't easy standing about all day like this, trying to keep her calm and such given she's such a tempermental beast." He tugged on the reins, which produced no more of a reaction from the animal than a slight shake of her massive head and mild snort. "Mighty wearying, it is."

The Duke sighed again. He'd handed Zidler a goodly sum to scour the stables of Paris and procure a fitting horse for the "Lover's Escape"; but the color of her hide was only relation this fat, docile mare bore to the script's description of _"the Maharajah's swiftest white stallion, with hooves that clattered like thunder across the plain and nostrils that snorted tongues of flame". _As a matter of fact, she appeared to be in the early stages of pregnancy.

"Excuse this tiresome business, my dear," the Duke unwound Satine's arm from his own and kissed her hand gallently, before approaching Zidler. "Perhaps we ought to cut the horse out of the play altogether," he sniffed.

"Cut the horse? Why my dear Duke, of course we'll bow to your superior artistic judgement, but just imagine the spectacle of this magnificent creature carrying the lovers across the stage!"

"Look, all's I want to know," the stablehand brayed, sounding more of a mule than a horse, "Am I getting paid for my valuable time today, and do you want us back tomorrow?"

"For Jupiter's sake just pay the man for his trouble, Zidler," the Duke sighed irritably, "and instruct him to return in the morning." Was there no end to the petty details that needed attending, and no one else capable of handling them?

"As you wish." Harold dug through his pockets with a pained expression, and located a few dusty coins. "Then afterwards, why don't you accompany me to my office to approve the latest costume sketches?"

"Tomorrow, Zidler," the nobleman flicked his gloves impatiently. "I will be spending the afternoon in_ M'lle_ Satine's company. Please make sure that supper is ready for us in the Tower at eight sharp."

"But of course." He grinned knowingly, bearing a sudden startling resemblance to the gargoyles that leered down eternally from _Notre Dame_ Cathedral. "The sketches can certainly wait. Please, enjoy your evening." He bowed and took his leave.

"Now, my dear, where were – " the Duke turned and discovered Satine was not where he had left her moments earlier. His eyes scanned the theater. She had been right behind him, hadn't she? He finally located her, standing at the foot of the just-finished stage next to that writer. Their backs were turned to their patron but they stood quite close to one another, just as they had been after Rico's collapse.

The Duke ground his teeth in annoyance. He knew Satine was dedicated to her work, but could that confounded boy not offer her one moment of peace? Certainly Christian seemed to have no compunction in taking advantage of his leading lady, putting her to work all hours of the day and night with his constant stream of script revisions. The Duke smoothed down the tips of his mustache as he approached the pair. All work and no play was threatening to make this Jill a very dull girl; it was time to take corrective action.

"My dear, this is most fortuitous." He caught Satine under the elbow.

She jumped slightly at his touch and raised a free hand to her chest as she gasped and whirled to face him. "Oh! My dear Duke! Forgive me, I was a million miles away!"

The writer, meanwhile, uttered a noise that could best be described as a "yelp" of surprise at the nobleman's approach. "Y-your Grace, we didn't – I mean, I didn't – that is, _Mademoiselle_ Satine and myself were just discussing the next scene," he stammered.

"Work, work, work – is that all you ever think about, young man?" The Duke clicked his tongue reprovingly as he took Satine's hand in his own and pressed it to his lips with a murmured _"enchante", _before turning back to the boy. "A strong work ethic is certainly an admirable thing, but this obsession of yours with the production borders on the unnatural."

"Forgive me your Grace. I just wanted to be certain that she understood –"

This time it was Satine's turn to sigh impatiently. "_M'sieur_ James, if you're worried about 'the Lovers make their escape and renew their vows of love' scene, I can assure you that it will _not _be neglected." By this point she had thoroughly recovered both her breath and her composure as she cozily siddled up to her patron. "However, any discussion of the matter will have to postponed temporarily." She lifted a pearl-pale hand and waved it at the writer dismissively. "_Bon soir, M'sieur."_

"You heard what the lady said," the Duke likewise wagged his forefinger reprovingly at Christian. "Shouldn't you be looking after your Argentinean friend, instead of pestering _M'lle_ Satine needlessly?"

The boy nodded and lowered his eyes, appropriately chasened. "Of course, you're quite right, Your Grace, quite right." He gave a short bow from the waist to Satine. "Until tomorrow morning, then."

Despite his annoyance with the lad, the Duke allowed himself to enjoy a brief glance at Christian's retreating backside – those baggy trousers really left far too much to the imagination, he mused – before turning his full attention to the lady at his side.

"Alone at last." He patted the slender hand that rested in the crook of his elbow. "I really don't see why all these endless rehearsals are necessary; I think you're quite ready to go onstage tomorrow and conquer the world!"

"Well, I don't think the stage is quite yet ready for me," she giggled, sweeping her arm outward to indicate the construction in progress around them. "But it's very good of you to say so, Your Grace – and very thoughtful of you to rescue me. Once M'sieur James had me cornered I was afraid I'd be trapped for the entire evening!"

"Put him out of your thoughts, my dear - we have the afternoon free to ourselves! How shall we spend it? I could escort you to the Louvre, or we might enjoy a spot of lunch at Maxim's. What is your pleasure?"

She smiled sweetly and quirked her head at that particular angle – just so – which always sent a thrill of anticipation up his spine. As he focused on her face, he couldn't help but notice that she appeared even paler than normal, except for two bright pink spots on her cheekbones, while a thin sheen of perspiration coated her forehead and upper lip.

"Whatever you decide, I couldn't possible choose between the two." And her smile slipped a little as she pressed her fingertips lightly against her temple.

The Duke's brow lowered in concern, "Perhaps all these endless rehearsals are a bit much for you, my dear?"

To his surprise she did not demure. "Yes, I suppose today I am a bit under the weather."

"Ah, I know just the restorative then - a light supper in the Gothic Tower for two."

Satine shook her head regretfully. "I'm afraid not tonight, Your Grace. Please forgive me, but I'd be too tired to be any company. No doubt, I'd embarrass myself terribly; I shouldn't want to fall asleep in the soup! I believe I should follow our sitar player's example and get some rest while our slave driver of a writer is distracted."

He nodded graciously, "Of course my dear, your well-being is of paramount concern to me. I'll escort you to your room then shall I?" For once he buried his disappointment at not spending the night alone with her. It was, in fact, rather refreshing to see that on some occasions she was as delicate as any other woman.

Satine's grateful smile warmed the nobleman's heart. "You are so kind to me, and I don't deserve it. This production takes up all of my time and I never seem to have even a moment to spend with you."

He waved her words away with a gracious toss of his hand as they departed from the auditorium. "Not at all, my sweet; I appreciate how very important your work is to you. It's only a pity that you must spend every spare moment working with that writer – I never would have imagined the boy was such a task master."

"Oh, you have no idea!" She rolled her eyes heavenward and raised her free hand to her chest as they walked. "There's always new scenes and endless script revisions, and when we rehearse?" She lowered her voice as if to reveal to him a wicked tidbit of gossip or a naughty secret. "He insists that we do it again, and again, and again –"

"My goodness!" The Duke gasped in equal parts surprise, horror, and dismay.

"– and yet again, until he's completely satisfied with my performance." She turned to him with a helpless expression, her eyelashes fluttering lightly. "And what can I do except comply?"

He stroked her arm intertwined with his – or rather, he stroked the smooth silk brocade of her sleeve and imagined he was caressing her bare skin beneath his fingertips. "My dear, we can't have you being worn out. I shall give the boy a good talking-to and put a stop to this nonsense immediately."

She halted in mid-step, and took a deep, somewhat labored breath. "Oh no!" She waved one hand in casual dismissal and leaned close to him with a nonchalant smile. "I know he's annoying at times, my dear Duke, but we can't really be angry with him, can we? He only wants the production to be absolutely perfect in every conceivable way. And that's what I want too," she purred, her breaths coming now in a quicker, more shallow rhythm, "I want this play to be one we can all be proud of – one that will do our esteemed patron honor."

"You already commend yourself to me in everything you do, my dear. I do not doubt for a moment you will be the leading light of the modern theater. The Divine Sarah herself will weep in envy of your talent and fame."

"Do you really think so?" Her whispered voice rose in pitch as wonder, and a sliver of vulnerability colored her words and caught the Duke completely off his guard.

They had just entered the backstage area, where darkness reigned except for the sconces and temporary lamps that allowed the construction workers and performers pick their way through the gloom. The Duke glanced over at Satine and admired how her face glistened softly in the dim light, lending her a dewy allure. She was a woman of many faces – that was no doubt what fascinated him so completely. This new shy, demure, fragile Satine was surely the most captivating yet.

As if sensing his growing interest, Satine turned to him and he fancied he could see an answering glow of desire lighting her so very blue eyes. She leaned towards him and he let his hand drop from her elbow to slip his own arm around her waist, pulling her closer to steal a kiss from those lovely, feminine lips.

"My sweet," he whispered, "Sa – Satine? Satine!" Just as he had tightened his hold about her, she took a deep gasping breath that turned into a harsh cough. As she turned her head and covered her mouth, he hastily whipped his handkerchief from his vest-pocket. She accepted the monogrammed linen square with a wordless nod and pressed it to her mouth.

After less than a minute, perhaps, the spell quieted and passed – although it seemed infinitely longer than that to the concerned nobleman. He kept one hand planted firmly on her waist, supporting her a bit beyond the point she was finally able to stand under her own power. Although he was relieved she had recovered so quickly, he was not so eager to relinquish his hold on her; it was the closest the two of them had come to anything resembling an embrace since the night they'd first met. "My darling, are you quite all right?"

She blinked rapidly several times as if slightly dazed, before nodding once more in response and drawing the handkerchief away from her mouth. "Forgive me, Your Grace," Her voice was still slightly ragged as she attempted to clear her throat. "I'm afraid all this plaster and sawdust irritates my throat." She sighed and waved her hand outward to indicate their surroundings. "I'll be terribly glad when the construction is finally finished."

"In that case, my sweet, I shall see to it that this theater is finished in double-time!" He slapped his palms together briskly to demonstrate how easily it would be achieved once he gave the command.

"You are so very kind." Her smile was grateful if decidedly tired. In the meantime, the Duke had noticed, she had slipped his handkerchief into her sleeve until only a single corner and a bit of the monogramming showed, but he decided not to comment on it. It was such a little thing compared to all the gifts he had already lavished upon her.

"No thanks are necessary. Let's simply get you to your room." Surprisingly deft at negotiating his way in the backstage area, no doubt a result of his daily visits to the theater and to Satine's dressing room, the Duke led her back through the chaos of ropes, raw wood, half-finished back drops, and endlessly interlocking hallways.

When they arrived at the door to Satine's room the Duke reached for the handle to open it for Satine. Before he could begin to turn the knob, the door opened seemingly by itself. The Moulin's aging stage mistress stood in the doorway, backlight by the faint light from the fire.

"Thank you, Your Grace – she looks done in, my poor lamb. It's so good to have a true gentleman among us." The older woman favored the Duke with a smile so warm that anyone walking past would have seen how his annoyance at being relieved of his charge evaporated in an instant, and he swelled visibly with self-importance.

"Of course, Madame, I could do no less for her." He followed the two women into the room as Marie led Satine to a tufted chaise before the fireplace, where flames danced and crackled. The Duke settled himself into a dainty armchair across from her – which, like every other piece of furniture in the room, bore his monogram subtly carved into the wood and woven around the cabbage roses of the upholstery. "Are you certain you are well, my dear? I could send for my physician if you are truly ill."

Satine shook her head as she reclined languorously against the cushions of the chaise, offering the Duke a rare opportunity to actually glimpse the froth of antique lace that trimmed petticoats he had paid for but never seen. "Oh no, Your Grace, it is merely rest I require. The show has been so much on my mind that I admit I've slept poorly these last few nights."

The Duke looked at her and then Marie with some bit of alarm, sitting erect in his seat. "Well, by thunder! Perhaps we should ask our writer to give every one a bit of a break? A few days holiday would likely do wonders for you, my dear." Some part of him writhed at the expense of such a delay, but he quelled the thought with pictures of what a three-day holiday with Satine would look like.

It was certainly a measure of Satine's weariness that she brightened noticeably. "That would be a welcome relief, Your Grace. If you would speak to Harold then I shall inform M'sieur James. "

"Oh?" In truth, the Duke rather relished the notion of having a private conversation with the writer; even the dressing-down he intended to give the boy would be rather entertaining. "You oughtn't to concern yourself with the matter, my sweet; I shall be more than happy to handle the boy myself."

"Believe me, Your Grace, he will take it much better coming from me; these writers are so very temperamental." She gave Marie a quick glance and then winked conspiratorially at the Duke, who bit his lip in response to hide his faint chuckle. "One has to know exactly how to deal with them lest they explode over the littlest slight and stomp off in a huff, and where would we be then – left with an unfinished script and no director?"

"Perhaps you are correct, my dear. That would be an unmitigated disaster. I suppose I must leave him to you to deal with." He rose from his chair and bent forward so he could lift her hand to his lips. "Perhaps you might honor me by joining me on a hot-air balloon ride? I cannot imagine anything more romantic than soaring among the clouds together and sharing a bird's eye view of the City of Love."

"Oh, my dear Duke! What a splendid idea!" She sat up and clapped her hands together with an expression of delight.

"Then it's settled; I'll arrange it at once."

"You are so very thoughtful, Your Grace." The smile that spread over her face banished all traces of exhaustion, and it pleased him greatly that he had such a restorative effect upon her. "Perhaps we should bring Monsieur James along with us?"

"But – but you can't mean to suggest we should drag the writer along with us, my dear – why ever should we do that?"

"Well, he was ever-so-useful carrying the blanket and basket for our picnic the other day – Oh thank you Marie," she murmured as she accepted a steaming cup of tea from the other woman's hand.

"That's quite true, my dear." The nobleman's thoughts drifted to that recent hazy afternoon, the city seeming a million miles away from the summit of that green hill, and to the boy's disarming smile as he spread the blanket on the ground. _"Is this quite all right, your Grace…"_

"And rowing us down the Seine," Satine continued.

"Indeed." The Duke recalled the muscles of the writer's arms straining against his rolled-up shirtsleeves with each stroke of the oars, his skin slick with the sweat of exertion, his neck smooth and taut above a starched collar that begged to be torn aside for the sake of summer's heat -

"Tea, your Grace?" Marie asked. The woman's question – not to mention the porcelain teacup filled with steaming liquid she thrust in face – cast him rudely out of his reverie.

"No, thank you." He dismissed her with a wave of his hand as he refocused his gaze on Satine.

Satine stirred a lump of sugar into her cup. "Just so, I' m certain he'll come in terribly handy doing – oh what's the word for it?" Her slender, pearl-pale hand described arabesques in the air. "Doing – what ever it is that needs to be done in a balloon."

"Keeping it up, you mean?" The Duke frowned thoughtfully, "Yes, you make an excellent point, my sweet. Trust you to see the practical side of any situation. "

"On the whole I'd say we women are quite practical – far more than we're given credit for. We have to be, in order to look after our men properly." Her voice descended to it's lower registers in a very feline _purr,_ and the nobleman shivered with anticipation.

He leaned forward and indulged himself with yet another kiss on the back of her hand. "From now on, my sweet, it is _you_ who shall be taken care of, I promise you."

Satine smiled up at him tenderly while she attempted to lay her cup and saucer on the tea table. Her hand trembled so that the cup rattled loudly against the saucer and threatened to slide onto the floor. Marie hurried forward to rescue the delicate porcelain.

"Beggin' your pardon, Your Grace, but we really must get her to bed." Marie shook her head at the girl in a sternly affectionate manner. "It's an early night in for you, lovey."

"Of course, forgive me," the Duke replied, standing and taking Satine's hand a final time. "Madam, I leave our star actress in your very capable care." Standing straight, he pressed perfunctory kiss to the back of Marie's extended hand, and reluctantly headed towards the door, "Au revoir ladies."

Satine's voice stopped him, "You will remember to tell Harold about the holiday, won't you?"

"Consider it already done." He bowed deeply with a mocking expression of deep devotion painting his features. "Your wish is my command, my lady." Satine grinned broadly and then lifted her nose high in the air with an overplayed expression of snootiness,

"You have my leave to go then"

The Duke chuckled, "Thank you, _your_ Grace." He winked broadly and she laughed, making small shooing gestures as he backed out of the door.

Marie waved extravagently from the doorway after him as he marched towards Zidler's office. "G'night, Your Grace! Always a pleasure!"

"Twinketoes." I don't know about you girl," Marie muttered as she shut the door after him and wiped the back of her hand against her skirt. . "I don't know about you, girl, but that man gives me the willies. Sooner we can be done with 'im the better, I say -- what's that you got there?"

Satine had already risen from the chaise and crossed to the fireplace; now she shrugged carelessly in response as she tossed something into the flames. "Nothing important Marie – just a nasty old handkerchief." She continued to stare down into the fire, her back turned against her mentor's probing gaze.

"Full o' secrets lately, ain't you?"

"Full of questions tonight, aren't you?" Satine tilted her head just enough that Marie could see the hint of a teasing grin.

"Humph – getting a bit big for your britches, I see." Marie responded with a jesting smirk of her own. "We'll just see if I can't still take you over my knee; I don't care how tall you get – or how famous you become." Satine chuckled at that as Marie lifted the girl's pink silk kimono from the top of the dressing screen. "Come on then lovey; let's get you undressed for bed."

"Thank you, Marie." Satine met the older woman in the center of the room and accepted the soft garment.

"Turn around, girl, I'll unbutton your – what are you doin'?"

Instead of turning her back for Marie's assistance, Satine knelt, pulled a small alligator satchel from beneath the bed and stuffed her robe into it. She then crossed to the armoire and pulled out two of the dresses hanging there. "Would you be a dear and help me change? Let's see, this one brings out the color of my eyes better, don't you think? Not that I'll have it on for very long anyway, mind." She chuckled to herself as she returned the rejected dress to the rack and laid the chosen one out on the bed – a dress both lighter and simpler than the one she was currently wearing.

Marie's eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed in understanding as she planted her hands firmly on her hips. "Ah, is that what all that rubbish was about earlier, dragging that boy along - '…whatever it is that needs to be done…'?"

"Well, how should I know? I've never been in a balloon before, have you?" Satine unfastened the opening of her over-bodice and tossed it carelessly on the bed, then reached around awkwardly for the row of tiny cloth-covered buttons down her back. "Really, Marie, do you plan to just stand there staring at me all evening, or are you going to help me?"

"What, help you undress for bed – or help you play the investor for a fool?" Marie shook her head. "He's bound to find out, girl. That Duke's not stupid, you know." She made no move to assist her protégé.

"Nonsense. When the play is a success, the Duke won't care about sleeping with me. He'll be too distracted by all the money he's making – damn these buttons!" She hissed as the objects in question eluded her grasp.

Marie sighed tiredly. "You're foolin' yourself if you believe that, girl. If that Duke finds out about you and the writer you'll be out on the street the next minute and that boy won't be able to get a playbill, much less a play, published anywhere in the world."

Gritting her teeth as she made yet another attempt to unfasten her gown, Satine growled, "Then we'll go to…America! The Duke won't be able to influence anything there!"

"Don't be so naïve! He may be an English duke, but money is still king in any country."

Satine huffed indignantly in response. "So I see you still harbor a secret ambition – to become a comedienne. Thank God you never followed it; I'd hate to watch you starve on the streets."

Marie grabbed Satine by her upper arms and gave her a rough shake, despite the fact that Satine towered over her by several inches. "This ain't no joke, girl; you've given me a reason to worry for real! What do you suppose is goin' through my 'ead every time I see you gallivantin' off with that boy? And don't think I 'aven't noticed!"

"Marie, he loves me! Christian loves me!" Satine brought her hands forward and clasped Marie in return. "Not because I'm beautiful or a great prize…he just, he…loves **me**."

The older woman softened her grip but did not release the girl entirely. "What makes this lad different from any other fellow, eh? Nearly every man what's walked in the nightclub has loved you – or wanted to. I seen it on their faces, pining for a glimpse o' you. The rich ones would've 'anded you the sun, moon and stars on a gilded platter if you'd asked them for it, and the poor ones would've died tryin'."

"But he loves me, not the Sparkling Diamond…and I love him." Satine locked eyes with the one woman who had been like a mother to her. "There's the difference."

The room fell into silence as Marie worried her lower lip pensively. Only the faint hiss of the fire in the grate gave the room any life at all. Suddenly a loud pop from the fire and the sound of a crumbling log broke the spell. "Bah!" Marie threw up her hands and stepped quickly around the girl to set herself to the task of unfastening the gown. "I've become a complete pushover in me old age."

Satine whirled around and hugged her now co-conspirator close. "Oh Marie, I knew I could count on you!" She kissed the older woman's wrinkled cheek, smearing the rouge and powder onto own. "I do love you!"

"Sure, you love me well enough when you get your way – spoiled you to death, I 'ave. Ease off, lovey; you're chokin' me!"

Satine laughed as she peeled her arms away from Marie's neck. "Don't worry! Everything will turn out all right, I'm sure of it. You'll see. When I'm a star and Christian's a famous writer we'll tour Europe…oh, of course you will come too; I wouldn't think of leaving you behind…" She babbled on happily about future fame and success as she turned around again to let Marie finish her task – and thereby missed the sad look of resignation the wizened stage mistress couldn't hide.

10


	3. Chapter 3

**The Lovers Are Discovered **

I get so sick of the racket Toulouse and his lot kick up every time something out o' the ordinary happens. Flutter around like a bunch of fussy old women the lot of 'em. And they all think me heartless when I don't turn to jelly at the first sign o' trouble. Someone has to keep their wits about 'em around here -- and didn't I run across the stage, pushin' people aside the minute I saw Rico fall? Care about him plenty I do, but I'm not goin' to pieces every time he keels over or I'd be in pieces every minute of the day. And soon as Zidler announced we'd break for the day I took to my heels and followed right after the whole crazy, absinthe-soaked lot of 'em without another thought.

'Course all that drama weren't really necessary. Rico was more'n half awake by the time we got over here. Though, all he wanted to do was go back to sleep after Shakespeare and Chocolat helped him to his bed. Fat chance of that happenin' with half the inhabitants of the Moulin already crammed into Toulouse's flat.

In less than five minutes there's bottles of absinthe and champagne being passed around and Satie's already banging away on his out-of-tune little piano. Chocolat danced with La Petomaine; Babydoll curled up on the rug in 'er knickers while Toulouse sketched her on a pad bigger'n he was; Travesty flirted with Schoolgirl and Arabia cuddled on the sofa with China Doll, passing a bottle back and forth between 'em. The entire time the Doctor was pumpin' out drinks from the tubes of his still. That contraption rattled so loud it nearly drowned out Satie's piano, 'though it were all just noise to me for some reason.

Don't ever let it be said that we Creatures of the Underworld don't know how to party in the daylight when the opportunity presents itself.

All the while poor Rico just sat back in bed and let it wash over him, suckin' silently on one o' his precious cigars. I wouldn't 'a minded a puff or two myself, but 'e don't like to share. Still, I were content to curl up on the mattress next to him and even light his cigar for 'im, though there weren't much point 'n it. I weren't expectin' anything from him, but I knew from experience that mattress were the only comfortable seat in the room and my bum needed the rest.

Not five minutes after the first bottle is opened Babydoll piped up from the floor, "Where's _Monsieur _Christian disappeared to? Wasn't he here a just a few minutes ago, putting Rico to bed?" She giggled at her own _entendre_ like it were the cleverest thing she'd ever heard in her life. "No offense, _Monsieur_ Rico."

"None taken, _Senorita," _he murmured, which was more words than he'd put together since he'd gotten there.

The little dwarf paused in his work and craned his neck to look at Babydoll, still posin' on the floor in front o' him. "I've no doubt Christian is hard at work on the script – a slave to his muse, the mark of any true _artiste._" I always found it 'ard to take anything the man says seriously with that lisp o' his.

"Seems to me 'e prefers 'is own company to hangin' around the likes of nobodies like us," I snorted. "Seen it all before, 'aven't we? Boy gets tired of bein' under Papa's thumb and comes here to get himself some thrills, only to find out 'bohemian life' ain't what he imagined it'd be, or tucks tail and runs at the first sign of 'ardship?"

Toulouse peered at me through his spectacles and grimaced, despite his nearsightedness. "Ah, that's where you are wrong, _M'lle." _He 'eld his hand over his heart like the little drama queen 'e is. "Christian is indeed one of us – a true bohemian revolutionary."

I didn't say nothin' to that, just knocked back my drink. This weren't a line o' argument I cared to continue. If I 'ad a _sous _for every time I'd heard the dwarf declare his latest find to be a "true bohemian revolutionary" my pockets'd be so full I'd'a built me own theater and told Harry Zidler to piss off a million years ago.

"I have to disagree with you, Nini," Petite Princess pouted from the ottoman, which was the only place she could sit and still keep 'er feet on the floor. "I don't think Christian's stuck up at all. I think he's a perfect gentleman, and as sweet as can be. It a shame he's always working so hard on this play. A young man like him ought to have a little fun, once in a while. And where's Satine? She never –"

"Bugger that!" I hissed, good and loud for 'em all to 'ear. Even Satie stopped rattlin' away long enough to turn 'round and stare at me. "Like I should give a rat's arse where 'er high 'n mighty Diamondness is! When the 'ell did Zidler's precious princess ever bother one jot over the likes of us, eh? Might dirty 'er dainty hands bein' around scum like us!"

"Nini, enough." Rico's voice was low and gentle, but 'is hand squeezin' my arm was none-too- friendly. He were still tired so it weren't no trouble to jerk out of his grip and climb off the bed.

When I looked around the room it was all I could do not to scream at the whole silly, sordid, desperate lot of 'em. That sea of faces was all strangers - made ugly and mean with paint too strong for daylight, drink, and forced gaiety. Sure, usually I was a ringleader in these little parties, but for once there was too much noise, too much color, just...too much.

I ducked out into the hall to have a fag in peace, and shut the door behind me. It weren't but a ten-count later that Satie was banging out another tune, and Babydoll and the others were laughin' like a pack o' hyenas. They was havin' a good enough time without me, all right. Hell with the lot o' 'em.

I'd have missed 'im if I'd stepped out a minute later – the boy, I mean, closing the door of 'is wretched little garret. Of course, I'd never been so much as invited inside, oh no - a whore like me weren't good enough fer the likes of him! But I'd seen the place plenty of times peering down through the hole in Toulouse's floor when the boy first come, although it'd been boarded up quick enough since then. (Made me snigger to think o' Rico making that hole, scaring the pants off baby-faced Mr. Boho-wanna-be. I'm sure he never imagined what he got 'imself in for when he walked into our little village.)

Shakespeare looked around but didn't see me none, hidden as I was behind the curve of the wall on the landing just above 'im. Then he fairly well flew down the stairs, takin' em two and three at a time. All the noise of the party upstairs probably disturbed his precious concentration, I figured, and it drove him out – kinda like it drove me out, maybe. I couldn't believe I was actually feeling – what? A little sympathy for the boy? What would Toulouse call it, "fellowship" or some such nonsense?

Whatever it was vanished the minute I heard two sets of footsteps coming up the stairs -- a heavier tread and a fair-light step I'd heard so many times before.

"Don't you ever stop working, _Monsieur _James?" Muffled and distant she might o' been, but I knew the voice of that shrill, stuck-up minx as well as I knew my own. I sat up and every muscle in me body tensed.

"I got nervous waiting for you, so I started reworking the wedding scene. I think I've just about solved that awkard patch when the Sitar Player interrupts the wedding –"

"How industrious you are! And all I managed to achieve in the meantime was to change my dress."

Peerin' down the landing I saw 'em as they come up the steps arm 'n' arm together: Shakespeare with his cheeks bright pink and Satine nervous but smiling, carryin' a satchel I'd never seen before.

He scratched the back o' his neck with his free hand. "When inspiration strikes, I have to take advantage of it."

"Taking _advantage_ of your muse, in other words?" Was that _flirtation _I heard in the little tart's voice?

He flushed a million times redder than before as they stopped in front of his door. "No, what I mean, _M'lle,_ is that…my muse has been very good to me lately." He kissed the back of her hand, all gentlemanly-like, and I saw him smile with a glint in his eye…what the hell, was they flirtin' with each other?

"Indeed. Why don't we look over that scene together?"

Then they kissed – and a thousand stolen glances and touches suddenly all made sense. Why the hell hadn't I seen it before, when it was all plain as the livin' day? She simpered at 'im while he fumbled with the doorknob and the stupid sot just lapped it up. Then he lifted her up in his arms and carried her through the door with a flourish that made me want to vomit.

Morbid curiosity made me follow 'em down and I stood at the door with my ear close. It were still plenty loud upstairs so there weren't no chance o' them hearin' me, but I stayed quiet and stubbed out my fag just in case. All sorts of noises come through the door: her insipid gigglin', papers rustlin', and a sound only someone in my line o' work would recognize – the soft _plop_ of clothes droppin' to the floor .

"When I saw the Duke hook his arm around your waist I was afraid I wouldn't see you tonight." Not even a fool could'a missed the desperation in his voice. "If only we could make him go away, then everything would be perfect."

"Hush, Christian, someone might overhear."

_After that impromptu performance I seen just now? _I sniggered silently. _Too little, too late, ducks._

"Nonsense, sweetheart, they can't hear themselves upstairs, much less us."

"But we have to be careful."

"We will, we are, I promise. Come what may."

"_Come what may_…" And fer a wonder Miss Nose-in-the-Air actually sang that silly line!

Then Christian sang it back to her:_"Come what may, I will love you, until my dying day." _

And as the Devil 'imself is my witness, she kept it going! _"Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place…"_

Disbelieving, I dropped to one knee and stuck my eye to the keyhole. Not five feet away was the poet's bare bum and as I watched, he stopped singing and shifted sideways as if he were thoughtfully turning to give me a better view. I'll admit the sight of his considerable manhood on the rise made for a tasty sight. Still, I couldn't imagine the Diamond puttin' herself out for free even for the sake of a prick – and yet there she was right in front o' me!

Shakespeare'd already unbuttoned the the collar of the her dress; now he tilted his 'ead and began suckin' on the Diamond's throat. Someone ought to remind him that if he don't want to get caught, he better not leave a mark.

If he were too stupid to realize this, Satine wasn't. "Christian…you know you can't do that, I've warned you."

"You're right, I'm sorry my love." He lifted his head to kiss her mouth again. "Sometimes I can't help myself." And he laughed, a wicked chuckle that I didn't even think the boy were capable of. But what really surprised me was when she laughed too. It was a free, easy sounding laugh that I'd never heard before – not from her, and not ever.

I jerked back and stood up fast so's I wouldn't see anymore. The sight of their sordid little affair must've made me sick or dizzy. Thank god the hallway's narrow so I's able to hold my arm out to the wall to support myself, otherwise I might'a fallen on me bum.

I wanted to kick the door open and slap the both of them! That stupid boy was going to ruin everything! Did he think the Duke was a fool! Sooner or later she'd forget to stop him bitin' her neck, or they'd smile at each other in plain sight of everyone so even that dumb-arse investor couldn't miss it. My cig was still smolderin' where I'd dropped it and I ground it to powder with my toe, wishin' it were that stupid, selfish boy. Wishin'…yeah, wishin' it were Satine. Self-centered whore. She never laughed like that for me! Never in all the times we'd comforted each other…course we was just a couple of pups back then, but still...

Might've gone right in and shown 'em what's what, but I heard the door open upstairs and Toulouse stepped out onto the landing. We stared at each other for a few minutes and then he made his slow, painful way down the steps. A lot o' my anger drained away watchin' 'im. I realized I'd never thought about the fact that he walked up and down these steps two or three times a day. His face were contorted like he wanted to scream each time one o' his feet took a step, but he didn't say a word. I didn't say nothin' either – knew he'd hate it if I did.

He stopped when he was at eye level with me and glanced at the garret door. This close the giggles and snatches of singin' that you couldn't hear upstairs were perfectly clear. When his eyes met mine, there weren't no hidin' it, not from me -- he'd always known. They'd all known, the entire useless, bohemian lot of 'em! I wanted to throttle the little wretch and then kick his miserable stunted arse down the stairs. I wanted to rip the garret door open and shove both of their sniveling faces into wall as I shouted "Why not me damnit!"

And just as badly I wanted to kick my own sorry arse for not puttin' the clues together long before this.

Instead, I turned on my heel without a word and hurried down the stairs, not carin' this time who heard me. If the Duke couldn't see what was in front of his face, I'd just have to find a time and place to point it out to him.


	4. Chapter 4

**They Think I'm a Fool **

Even as I admire the marvelous view from the balcony of the tower, bile churns in my belly. I'm not certain if I'll even be able to swallow a bite of the splendid meal my chef is preparing but, then again, "supper" is not my purpose for coming here tonight. It's really only an enticement, a bit of bait, for the courtesan who has managed to put me off with flimsy excuses for so long…far, far too long.

That black-haired dancer's soul must match her raven locks – her poisonous words this afternoon echo in my head even now, as I wait for Satine to come at my bidding. I wonder if I wouldn't be much happier if that viper had kept her mouth shut and I still existed in a state of blissful ignorance.

"This endin's silly! Why would the courtesan choose the penniless writer – oops! I mean _'sitar player'_!"

My head jerked around to stare up at the girl as she loomed over my shoulder. Usually I take no more notice of her than I do of the gilded cherubs that adorn the theater's doorway. This time, however, her words cut right through me, a fact of which she was perfectly well aware! Her piercing blue eyes were alight with malicious amusement as she flicked her gaze from me to the boy where he sat on his stool, before she sauntered away, completely satisfied with herself, to join her companion.

Oblivious as always, the poet sang the "Lovers' Secret Song" right along with the cast, and for a moment I couldn't help but watch the way his throat muscles moved. But then a haze of fury washed over me as a picture began to crystallize in my head, the replay of a hundred stolen glances, guarded looks and furtive smiles, all performed before my very eyes. How could I have been so blind? Picnics in the woods, boat trips on the Seine, even a ride in a hot air balloon had all been chances for the writer and the courtesan to amuse themselves at my expense. And a considerable expense it's been, at that!

As the cast lifted their arms with the final crescendo of music, I watched an entirely different play...

_Christian spread a woolen blanket under a tree, after making certain that the ground was free of stones, or other bits of flora that would impede the courtesan's comfort, and invited her to sit down. _

"_Merci, Monsieur." She murmured as she stepped forward lightly and grasped his upraised palm for assistance._

_He looked up and caught the Duke's gaze focused on their joined hands. Christian released her and smiled, gesturing to the smooth groundcover on which the courtesan was so artfully posed. "Will that be all right Your Grace?"_

_Satine pulled her copy of the play from her handbag, and inclined her head in that graceful manner that was at once completely innocent and entirely alluring. "I'm not sure if my delivery of this passage was quite correct yesterday, Monsieur James, what do you think?" And she motioned for him to come closer, necessitating the placement of his hand on her arm._

"_No, it's a bit more like this, Mademoiselle; let me show you…"_

Oh yes, I'd seen it all – and yet somehow managed to miss all the little clues. The wretched pair of them! They were both deceivers! Satine I should have guessed at – she of the coy glances and pecks on the cheek, just enough to keep me wrapped around her little finger, but still at a distance. But the boy! Who would ever have believed him capable of such duplicity? He appeared to be the very picture of innocence, completely wrapped up in his work and oblivious to all else. Now, it's clear that they both meant to beguile me all along.

My eyes flickered over him again during rehearsal and an awful feeling – both cold and hot – washed over me. They may have conspired to deceive me, but they are not the only ones to blame. I allowed myself to fall under her spell that very first night. _'How wonderful life is now you're in the world' – _indeed! I **was** a fool to fall for that line. Satine, with her silky voice and seductive airs, was certainly the trap set for me but how could I have known that the poet himself would be as much of a temptation.

He can't have any idea that his delectable backside was as enticing as Satine's practiced charms. His innocent allure is most likely the true reason they were able to conduct their affair right under my nose. Neither of them suspected that I asked him to row us in countless boat trips in order to see him without his coat – or if they did, they showed no outward sign of it. I suppose, theoretically, I cannot blame them if I let them practice their lines before me not merely so that I could admire the shapely courtesan, but so I could drink in the sight of the poet's mouth as he crooned out those golden notes.

That, however, does not excuse their behavior in the slightest! Not only is that girl mine by rights, but I am clearly the better prospect. What can she see in that simpleton aside from his pretty face? Creative he might be but he doesn't have two pennies to rub together! Unless it has to do with his ridiculous play, the lad can barely see past the end of his nose! She would end up taking care of him, not the other way around.

I burned with an intense need – though whether to punish them or to bed them I could not say.

Still a contract is a contract, and I am primarily a man of business. "I don't like this ending!" It came out rather more shrill than I had intended, but it got the attention of the entire cast and crew, from Zidler himself to the lowliest stagehands. Everyone stared at me with stunned expressions, looking put out. Out the corner of my eye I could see the beginnings of anger creeping over the poet's face. Had I not been so angry myself, I might have better enjoyed watching him and the rest of that motley group squirm uncomfortably.

"Don't like the ending?" Zidler sputtered. His oversized oriental turban made him appear even more ridiculous than usual. But that's the true nature of their game, isn't it; to make the "maharajah" look as ridiculous as possible – to play me as a fool onstage _and _off. Nonetheless, I'm certain that the impresario is not nearly the buffoon he appears to be with his vulgar waistcoats and powdered cheeks. Why, it wouldn't surprise me in the least if Zidler has been pulling the strings behind the scenes, assisting the pair of them in their deceptions the entire time. "My dear Duke -- !"

"Why would the courtesan choose a penniless sitar player over the maharajah?" There, that came out rather better. "Who is offering a lifetime of security – that's real love! Once the sitar player has satisfied his lust he will leave the courtesan with nothing!" This was only self-evident; I could hardly believe Satine had been taken in by the boy, no matter how breathtaking his smile. "I suggest that in the end the courtesan chose the maharajah." Perfectly reasonable, I felt.

That wretched, lisping dwarf didn't agree, apparently. "But-but sorry, sorry!" He hobbled forward, his pathetic legs hampered by the lower half of his enormous "sitar" costume. "That ending does not uphold the bohemian ideals of truth, beauty, freedom, and lo-"

"I don't care about your ridiculous dogma!" I was supremely tired of their endless goings-on about bohemian 'ideals'. "Why shouldn't the courtesan choose the maharajah?"

"BECAUSE SHE DOESN'T LOVE YOU!" The poet snarled, and his voice echoed up into the rafters. I whipped around to stare into his eyes as an evident expression of fury, the likes of which I have never seen before, washed over him. His brow furrowed but his cheeks were smooth and tight, and his lips pulled back into his mouth, as though he had to stretch out his face to make room for the anger.

The fierceness faded from his face in the next instant as he blushed and stammered in a pathetic attempt to recover his blunder. "Him…h-him…s-sh-she duh-doesn't love him!"

There is nothing like having your worst fears confirmed and being humiliated all with one sentence. "Oh I see…" It's surprising how calm one can be when rage sets in. I looked at Satine and she merely raised her chin in that typically haughty manner of her's. When I flicked my eyes back to the boy, he thinned his lips, and looking somewhat scared, tried to copy her move. That was it - I'd had enough.

"Monsieur Zidler! This ending will be re-written with the courtesan choosing the maharajah, and without the lover's secret song. It will be rehearsed in the morning, ready for the opening tomorrow night."

The showman looked stunned, not that I could have cared less; in fact, it rather amused me to watch him flounder and gasp like a dying fish. "My dear Duke, t-that will be quite impossible…ah-"

"Harold! The poor Duke is being treated appallingly!" Satine glided forward and descended the stairs towards me, looking every inch a queen – instead of the harlot she is – in her fine crimson gown and gold headdress. Despite my anger I was reminded again of what I found so enticing about her, although I wasn't about to let her off the hook easily. "These silly writers let their imaginations run away with them!" She said dismissively, flicking a disdainful glance at the writer.

Perhaps the other girl had been wrong? Perhaps she saw the boy's interest and mistook Satine's manipulation as genuine feelings for him? No doubt that raven-haired trollop has had designs on the lead role for herself, and would say or do anything to discredit Satine and curry my favor. Still, my eyes have been opened; this situation cannot be tolerated, and anyone who thinks otherwise is in for their own rude awakening.

"Now why don't you and I have a little supper," Satine continued, her voice descending to a low purr, "And afterwards we can let Monsieur Zidler know how we would prefer the story to end?" She smiled, with just the right touch of wicked suggestiveness in her wide blue eyes. I ought to have pushed away then and there, turned my back on her and the entire lot of them, but her beauty was as mezmerizing as ever. Best of all, the jealousy that colored the poet's face as he sucked in his breath and pretended – badly – not to care, was immensely satisfying.

"That will be all, thank you." I flip my hand at the jeweler's assistant. "Leave it on the table."

"_Merci, _Your Grace." He bows almost double and backs out of the room, having just delivered the necklace I was to give Satine tomorrow night. I open the case to admire, somewhat to my dismay, the exquisite craftsmanship and flawless beauty of it, nestled on a bed of blue velvet. Even in the dim light of the few nearby candles and the roaring fire the clear stones sparkle with a thousand colors. This was to be my gift to her after opening night to celebrate the success of the show – and the confirmation of our union. Granted the piece is a tad garish, but I doubt a girl of Satine's humble station would be bothered by such considerations. At any rate, I do rather enjoy the fact that it looks like a collar, a perfect sign of just who truly owns her – no matter how comely the "penniless sitar player" might be.

So I return to the window, and see nothing of the brilliant lights and bustling crowds. All are invisible to me. For in my mind's eye I see _her _before me, wearing nothing but her negligee and my necklace…but I also see _him, _with his large, soulful eyes and firm jawline…and I wait.

But I shall _not_ be kept waiting much longer.


	5. Chapter 5

**It's For Us**

"Thank you, Elizabeth." Satine sighed, and gave the wardrobe mistress a weary but grateful smile as she patted her hair back into place. She allowed herself a moment's relief at not having to wear the beautiful but awkward headdress anymore – or, at least not for the next fifteen hours or so.

She hurried down the three steps before her to dash to her dressing room – there would be no rest – the Duke was waiting. She'd barely gotten beyond the bottom step when a hand shot out of the adjoining hallway and caught her arm.

"I don't want you to sleep with him!" Christian's beautiful voice had climbed an octave. It gave him the same power puppies had been using to manipulate people for centuries: that pitiful whimper that twisted your heart and forced you to act.

Satine blew out a breath from behind clenched teeth. "He could destroy everything!" It was obvious that he knew exactly who she meant, but still, he shook his head, looking a little wild around the eyes. Her own words came back to haunt her – "_the jealousy will drive you mad" _–and she wanted to shake him and shout in his face: "Stupid boy! Do you know what this is costing me? Do you?" But she restrained herself; she would need him to be there for her when the deed was done.

Swallowing back the bile that rose in her throat, she moved close to reassure him and calm him down, but laughter echoed nearby. Hastily, the lovers separated, as had become second nature to them. Christian retreated into the tiny hallway from which he had emerged until a small group of scantily-clad dancers passed and disappeared from sight. Their voices dissolved down the other end of the passageway before she felt his fingers curl and tighten around her wrist once more.

Satine should have known it would come to this – she'd been a fool to convince herself otherwise. The Duke was a power to be reckoned with; or his money was at any rate, drawing out those individuals with enough greed and avarice in their souls willing to do his bidding. Including – if she were perfectly honest – herself.

Still, was it truly greedy of her to want to be free? Perhaps not, but it made no difference now. She had conveniently forgotten that the freedom the Duke could grant her could only come at a steep price. In the shelter of Christian's love she'd ignored the warning voice of the "Sparkling Diamond" that echoed in her head over and over again: _When you make a bargain with the Devil,_ _you inevitably have to give him his due_.

So the courtesan had held the Duke at bay for months: doling out small portions of affection and keeping herself just out of arm's reach, all the while teasing him with promises of future delights. Like a beautiful fish darting about in a clear mountain stream, rainbow scales glinting in the sunlight, her allure had forced the foolish fisherman to use ever more tempting lures. Oh, she knew there was a hook hidden behind the bait, but she'd thought herself cunning enough to take the bait and miss the hook.

Today, the Duke had reminded her and everyone else that he was perfectly capable of setting his hook – no matter how fast and clever the fish.

The only person more surprised than Satine at the Duke's guile was Christian. Satine had to remind herself that any other man she had ever known would have been completely indifferent to the fact that she had to sleep with the Duke. Her clients understood their roles in the game as thoroughly as she did: they rented time with a pretty girl for one night and released any claim on her when the allotted time was up. In contrast, the very idea horrified and angered Christian, though perhaps it was not entirely out of concern for her. Maybe it was in part his wounded pride. She wasn't certain anymore from where his anger stemmed, but this was not the time to contemplate such matters.

"It's. For. Us." She hissed through gritted teeth, before he could object again. His eyes offered protest enough, louder and more painful than any scream or shout. For just a moment she could not even bear to look at him. Leaning against him, she pressed her lips to his temple and whispered into his ear. "You promised…you_ promised_ me you wouldn't be jealous." Realizing she was in danger of whining herself, she firmed her voice and leaned back, trying to find the right thing to say to prevent him from making more of an ass of himself than he already had.

"You…" No, that wasn't coming out the way she'd meant it to. She sighed in misery as he looked away and shook his head, denying her words and any excuse she could offer. "It will be all right," she whispered soothingly as she stroked his cheek. He continued to shake his head, uncharacteristically mute and looking utterly lost. "Yes, it will." Satine swallowed again to tamp down not only the ever-present pain in her chest, but the overwhelming weight of exhaustion that threatened to pull her feet out from under her.

Having doled out all the reassurance she had time for, she pressed her cheek to his' briefly, then turned to go. "He's waiting…"

But he caught her arm again, pulling her back. "No…no!" He choked out a wretched moan of desperation.

She closed her eyes and tried to think of something, anything, to say that would placate him. Why was he being so unreasonable, now of all times? Didn't he understand what was at stake – not just for the two of them, but for everyone at the Moulin Rouge? Perhaps she really would give the boy a solid scolding this time, she decided as she turned back to him.

"Oh…" Instead her heart melted, this time in the heat of his anguish, as her eyes met his. He simply did not understand the reality she lived in and to be fair, she'd worked very hard to shelter him from it. She wanted to believe in his marvelous dream that everything would turn out right for the two of them – and why shouldn't she? He loved her. He didn't want to possess her because she was beautiful or unattainable; he simply wanted to be _with_ her. What she wanted for herself, he wanted for her. Only he saw past the façade of the voracious "Sparkling Diamond" to the real Satine, to the woman who could have cared less about shiny baubles and trinkets and who only wanted one thing: the freedom to choose for herself. Even if he didn't truly comprehend the horrors of the life she had led, he knew she wanted a different life for herself – a better life, whatever that might be – and therefore he wanted to give it to her. It made it possible to forgive him almost anything.

"_Come…what…may…" _Satine sang softly into his ear, rubbing her cheek against his and putting in a supreme effort to convince him of her feelings using only those three meager words.

"Come what may," Christian whispered, cutting his eyes up and down and nodding stiffly, though he still looked as if she'd punched him in the gut when he released her arm and turned away.

Satine clutched the wall and watched him go, feeling ill and inexplicably guilty. She closed her eyes, so tired – _oh so tired _– and wondered when or if she would ever be free of all this wretched acting. Eight months ago all she could think of was how badly she wanted to be a respected and successful actress, with enough money and power at her disposal to never have to sleep with a man she didn't love ever again. Now all she longed for was a chance to stop acting. Just an afternoon, just half an hour, when she didn't have to be "the Hindu Courtesan" or the "Sparkling Diamond" or even, she finally had to admit, "Satine" – Christian's perfect mistress. _Mon Dieu_, just five minutes when she didn't have to be someone perfect for someone else.

Slowly, as though trapped in a pool of treacle, she trudged back to her dressing room to put on her next costume and prepare for her next part. On with the show_ – _she was a professional, after all. Still, she felt as though her feet weighed thirty pounds apiece. Was it just her imagination, or had the theater's stairwells become steeper, the hallways longer, during Harold's recent renovations?

She paused outside the dark wooden door that bore her name in curling script on a porcelain plaque, and choked down a cough. Damnable nuisance this cold, or flu, or whatever it was; she just wished it would go away. Hard enough to keep her head above water, to think clearly, when merely getting through the day felt like a major achievement.

Lately she'd begun to entertain the strange, morbid fancy that she was in fact deathly ill, much like the tragic courtesan in _La Dame Aux Camilias. _She'd never actually read _M'sieur_ Dumas' novel, but Harold had given his newly-minted "Sparkling Diamond" a rare treat, not quite three years ago: an afternoon matinee performance of the same author's play starring her idol, the Divine Sarah. Not a single dry eye was to found in the auditorium when the heroine expired oh-so-beautifully in the arms of her grieving lover.

Now Satine stood in the hallway outside of her dressing room, gulping down labored breaths and replaying the death scene in her mind's eye. Instead of Sarah Bernhardt, however, she cast herself in the lead role with Christian opposite as the hapless lover, clutching her lifeless body and wailing pitifully while the curtain descended with fatal finality. It wasn't that Satine wanted to die, but it would certainly make all of her problems go away, wouldn't it? Make the Duke and Harold (…_and Christian? _the "Sparkling Diamond" sneered venomously) and the Moulin Rouge – make the whole world – go away.

_If I should die this very moment…_

_What nonsense, _the Diamond sniffed, her tone of contempt harsh in Satine's ears. _Sentimental drivel. _What had started out as a professional title, a marketing gimmick that Harold had invented and Satine refined into a protective persona meant to be worn and removed at will, had somehow developed a life force all its own. Satine wondered now if by acting the role for so long she had in fact become that cold but alluring creature, with a heart as hard as the jewels she had once thought would guarantee her freedom.

Or perhaps, she mused mirthlessly, the problem was that she _hadn't _sufficiently hardened herself.

"Where you been lovey? I been waitin' on you." Marie was bustling about inside the dressing room when Satine finally pushed open the door. As expected, the older woman had meticulously laid out Satine's "costume" for her dinner with the Duke: a sleeveless evening gown of ebony velvet trimmed with dark wine silk.

The Moulin's aging stage mistress continued with her preparations, laying chemise, corset and stockings on the bed. A dizzying array of face paints and perfumes stood at the ready on the dressing table. "The Duke's expectin' you at eight, so we'll have to hurry on – hardly gives me enough time to fix you up proper!"

Satine fingered the soft puffs of fabric meant to adorn her shoulders. Just a few short months ago the mere sight of this exquisite gown would have sent a thrill of anticipation up Satine's spine. Actually wearing it might even have overshadowed the knowledge that a man not of her choosing would eventually remove it before the end of the evening. Not anymore. Now the gown was a chain, its sumptuous train a ball of lead that promised to keep her bound here – a courtesan, never an actress, forever.

She let the fabric slide through her long fingers, and turned to face Marie, who stared at her favorite charge with a quizzical expression. "What's got into you girl? This ain't no time to be dreamin'! Now, come here so's I can get you changed."

"Yes, Marie."

_On with the show._

5


	6. Chapter 6

Reality Check

Christian stopped walking away after he rounded the first corner out of Satine's line of sight. Was it but an hour hence that he had felt as though he owned the world? Now the world was collapsing around him. Jealousy made him want to shriek with rage and sick up everything he had ever eaten all at the same time. The memory of the look on her face made him want to run to her and beg her forgiveness. "Oh, I am fortune's fool!"

"I'll agree with that one ducks! Well, the part about the fool anyways," Nini cackled. In the warren that was the backstage at the Moulin Rouge, Christian had come to rest near another stairwell, and Nini leered down at him from the third step; her black-ringed eyes were sharp and shiny and full of gleeful malice. "You nearly gave it up to the ol' Duke just now didn't you? It's a good thing our Diamond thinks on 'er feet it is!"

The emotions swirling through Christian's head suddenly coalesced into a solid ball of hate. He surged up the stairs and grabbed Nini by the upper arms, lifted her off the step and shoved her against the wall, ignoring the gaping Mome Fromage who stood just behind her. Rage made short work of his usual shyness or his gentlemanly manners, rendered him blind and deaf to all else except the black-haired dancer whom he shook like a rag doll, banging her head against the wall.

"You vicious bitch! I saw you sitting on his lap - teasing him, and behaving like the jealous whore I know you really are!" Spittle flew from his lips and a savage light lit his eyes. As usual, Christian had been oblivious to any action that didn't involve or affect him, but once he noticed someone, he could ascertain all the ramifications of that person's behavior. The light of understanding illuminated the darkness of confusion and he instantly made the intuitive leap. "You betrayed us! The Duke would never have insisted that we change the play otherwise!"

"Put her down Christian!" Mome tugged on his sleeve but he was barely aware of her, despite the formidable size that made her impossible to overlook in any other circumstances. "You can't change what happened, and he would have found out anyway – everyone knows!"

Those two words penetrated the red haze of the boy's fury and he set Nini on her feet, although he didn't release his grip on her. "Everyone?" Satine had told him as much a month or so ago, the morning after she had missed their planned rendezvous with the excuse that she'd been sick, but Christian had disregarded those words of warning since they didn't fit into his idealistic little plan. Now fear shouldered its way past the anger, tearing all his neat little dreams into tattered shreds, and took center-stage in his thoughts, stealing the strength rage had temporarily granted him.

"Everyone, Shakespeare. And it didn't take your lil' outburst to tell 'em either." Nini shrugged aside his hands with a contemptuous sneer as his fingers went slack. "Selfish lil' bastard! Never mind the fact that you're workin' all o' us night and day fer your stupid show, but now you want to go and ruin the one chance we all 'ave to get out o' this life – not just 'er, but all o' us!" By now Nini was practically shouting; having finally gotten the chance to vent her frustration at the boy, it seemed she wasn't about to let it go. "Call me a whore? Yeah, I'm not a bit surprised! Always actin' like you're all sweetness and light – then lookin' down that little nose of yours at us when you think no one's lookin'! A good thing it is that you ain't actually in the fuckin' show 'cause you can't act worth a damn!"

Mome laid a firm but gentle hand on the other courtesan's shoulder. "Now don't go on so, Nini! He doesn't realize what things are like for us. Do you think for a moment that Satine hasn't been sheltering him from it?"

"Yeah?" Nini snarled viciously over her shoulder, and Mome pulled away as if she'd been bitten. "Well that stops right 'ere 'cause I'm lettin' 'im in on a few facts!" She rounded on Christian again, poking a finger in his chest and forcing his back against the wall. "Do you understand for even a moment what would 'appen to all o' us if the Duke turned against us and closed the Rouge?"

"Well, I-I-"

"No, you don't 'ave the first fuckin' clue! We'd 'ave to work out of another 'ouse is all - one wi'out decent beds or a manager who actually cared about us! One where your precious Diamond would 'ave to take whatever randy piece of shit what walked in the door!" She waved a dismissive hand at his horrified face. "Oh sure, now you see what I'm talkin' about, don't you? Not a pretty picture, is it? You stupid arsehole - lost in your silly bohemian dream world of truth and beauty! Well, the truth ain't beautiful - it's ugly! Time for you get your head out of the clouds and your nose out of the air. You need to grow up and see the world for what it really is!"

When her diatribe finally ran out of steam Nini seemed to deflate as well, the fire gone out of her like a crushed cigarette. He watched her turn away to face the wall, wrapping her arms around herself as though cold. Suddenly his eyes were opened to the reality of the situation; he could see her draw the last remnants of her anger around herself like a shield. The hard, almost emotionless persona she normally affected kept everyone at arms length. He knew of no one there who was really close to her, even among the whores she spent the most time with, swapping cigarettes and vulgar stories. It protected her now from the damage she had caused – from the wounded expression on Mome's face and the one that he knew decorated his own. There was no doubt in Christian's mind that she had relished the satisfaction of bursting his "bohemian bubble". In the fleeting glimpse of her face he caught before she turned her back to him, he saw a look of hurt that shocked him almost as much as her words did. Could it be that shattering his fantasy world had pained her as much as it did him?

Before he could discover whether or not Nini had a conscience he didn't know about, Mome pushed past him and shook her finger at the other girl. "Nini, you got no right yelling at him like that! If he's innocent of all the filthy things that go on here, then that's all to the good I say." Mome turned to him, and he watched her features swiftly realign to form a picture of sympathetic optimism. "Chris, it's all right. Satine covered it up and everything will be fine now. She'll get the Duke to accept it, just wait and see."

Christian's eyes darted back and forth between the two women in growing panic. "Wait and see…wait for her to give herself to him? Wait for her to save us all by sacrificing her own soul - is that it?" He shoved his hands into his hair and gripped it hard while pacing back and forth across the three steps the tiny space permitted.

"She ain't no lily-white angel, you bloody fool," Nini growled contemptously. "There ain't nothing about her that ain't already been –"

"Hush, Nini!" Mome hissed as she gave the raven-haired dancer a little shove.

Christian barely noticed the byplay between the two women. "And it's m-my fault – oh God!" He moaned and shuddered as tears tracked relentlessly down his cheeks. "If I had k-kept my mouth shut she-she'd have held him off for one more day, the play would have been a success; then she wouldn't need him, and he'd forget about her. Instead, he'd be counting his money. A-and all of you would be free!" He waved a hand at the courtesans and then collapsed onto the nearest step, burying his face in his hands in a futile attempt to mask his sobbing.

"Now there'll be enough o' that my boy." He felt the wood of the poorly-constructed stair dip slightly as Nini sat beside him, nudging him over with one hip. "You knew this 'ad to 'appen the whole time. You just told yourself there'd be a way out o' it." Despite her harsh words, she reached a hand up and rubbed the back of his neck, gently smoothing a hand through his rumpled hair. "I ain't lettin' you sit here and wallow in self pity any more'n I was gonna let you ruin everythin'." She sighed and used her other hand to rub the back of her own head, perhaps feeling for a lump.

The poet lifted his face from his hands and looked into her opalescent eyes, astonished by the store of kindness he saw there, even though he wasn't certain he could trust it. He offered her a tenative half-smile of apology, which she acknowledged, with a roll of her eyes and a faint smile of her own. "Nini, forgive me, I-I wasn't myself-"

"Ne'er mind." She waved her hand dismissively. "Look 'ere, lad, Satine's a professional; she knows what she's doin'. She'll 'ave that Duke lappin' it up out of 'er palm like a bloody Pekinese." She looked to Mome for support. "Ain't it so?"

"Sure!" The other courtesan stepped closer and put a comforting hand on his shoulder; her stiff tulle underskirts rustled loudly with her every movement. "Don't worry, Chris, she can handle it."

"No you don't understand! She s-shouldn't have to handle it!" Christian leapt to his feet, shrugging aside women's hands. "I have to do something! I c-can't just leave it to h-her! I-I-its not right!" He pressed one forearm against the nearest wall, pounding on it with the other so hard sawdust from the just-finished construction sifted down into his hair. His mind worked furiously, trying to think of some way out, some way to set things to rights. "And how will she handle it? S-sh-she's sick! She's told me so herself, and I've seen her coughing lately."

"Don't be stupid, boy," Nini's tone was flippant enough, as she pulled a cigarette from her pocket and lit it although she pointedly avoided his eyes. "We all seen the hours she's put into rehearsin' – you more'n the rest of us, o' course – "

"She's a trooper, she is," Mome cut in hastily, offering her cohort another severe glare. "A right regular trooper. Why, she's worked as hard as the rest of us put together."

"Butshe's still fragile," Christian objected, "No matter what…s-she…s-says…"

His voice faded as the memories came flooding back through his mind. Suddenly details of Satine's behavior that had seemed insignificant at the time now coalesced into a new and frightening picture. Combined with the fact that suddenly neither of the women could meet his gaze led him to the only conclusion possible.

Dear God, how could he have been so blind?

"She truly is sick." His voice was dangerously low but his tone accusatory and filled with rising anger. "Sicker than she's been telling me. Isn't that so?"

The women exchanged furtive glances, until Mome looked away. Nini sighed dramatically, raised herself from the stair, dropped her cigarette, and crushed it out with her heel. Casually, she saunted forward and slung one arm over his shoulder and leaned against his chest the way he had seen her do with Rico or Chocolat. "Why, whoever tol' you that, Shakespeare? Satine's just tired, is all. Like I said, it's all them hours o' rehearsin'. I 'ave to hand it to you, lad," she purred and winked naughtily, "Ain't any man ever wore the Diamond down before."

Christian's entire body stiffened as his mouth hardened into a thin line. "I admit that I'm a terrible actor, but I'm not bad at seeing through other people's facades. You're very talented when it comes to handing out the truth Nini, but you're not so good at hiding it are you?"

For just a moment, he thought he actually saw apprehension in her kohl-rimmed eyes, although she didn't alter her overly-friendly stance as she chucked him under the chin. "C'mon now,

ducks –"

"The truth, Nini." He grasped her wrists and literally peeled her off his chest and held her before him, "It's more than just a cough, isn't it?"

She stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowed; the tiny muscles around her mouth flicked and twitched almost imperceptivity as she licked her scarlet-stained lips. She seemed to be mentally rehearsing all of her options. Apparently she decided to go with the straight truth. "Yeah, she's dyin'."

Christian released her wrists and shoved her away. "No…" Even though he'd known what she was going to say, the very truth he had demanded still robbed him of his breath. He stumbled away from Nini, his limbs shaking worse than his voice. "No, i-its not true." He slumped against the corner of the adjoining hallways, his knees partially collapsing, and leaned his head back to look up at Mome seeking comfort. "T-tell me it's n-n-not true, tell me-"

"It's true, Christian." Guilt echoed in Mome's voice and and painted her features as she lowered her eyes to the floor and twisted her dimpled hands in front of her chest. "She's got consumption. Marie was there when the doctor told Harold, and she told us so's we'd be careful around her and keep her going."

"Keep her g-going?" He exclaimed in outrage, clenching his jaws and his fists simultaneously.

"Yeah." Nini stared out at nothing, sad humor flavoring her gaze and her words. "The show must go on."

"When she's dying? How can she go to the Duke if…" Rage poured over him again in the wake of this new revelation. Not hot and fiery this time, but cold and merciless as an avalanche destroying everything in its path, and as precise as a steel blade cutting through the last cord of his illusions.

Christian raised his head and squared his shoulders, pushing away from the wall to stand upright. His step was hard and determined as he approached the girls, and they both shuffled back warily. "She doesn't know," he whispered, his voice so icy and emotionless even to his own ears, that he barely recognized it. Mome must have felt the chill emanating from him as well, for she froze in her place - the only response she could manage a pitiful whimper.

Nini, however, more than matched his hard gaze as she stepped forward and clapped her hands atop his shoulders. "No, she don't know – Zidler, that arrogant ass, is keepin' it from her!"

"But she can't – I mean, why would on earth would he –?"

"Why'd you think, Shakespeare? Him and his endless nonsense about 'ow the fuckin' show must go on! Sure, I were mad at you for pretendin' that everythin' were perfect, but 'im – oh 'e's a right royal piece o' work, 'e is! Yeah, 'e knows she's dying, but 'e ain't gonna let a little thing like that get in 'is way! Just imagine," she murmured confidentially, her fingers stroking the collarless band of his shirt, "What 'e'd do if it were one o' us other girls what took sick. If it were someone 'e didn't really give a damn about, instead' o' his preciousDiamond. _Now _you understand, don't you?"

The boy nodded mutely, and looked down at her as though seeing her for the very first time. Gone was the hard glitter that usually animated her pale eyes, and the smirk that she wore like a mask. Instead, he saw how weary and vulnerable she really was. It even occurred to him that he'd never paid attention to her or any of the dancers before. In his own way, he'd been as selfish as Zidler – if for very different reasons.

Without thinking he curled his arms around the dark-haired dancer, and she returned the gesture by burying her nose against the buttons of his shirt with a sigh. Christian rested his chin on her head, suddenly feeling comfortable with her now that all the cards were on the table. Mome, just a couple of steps away, didn't weep openly, but silently mopped her damp eyes with a tiny square of lace-edged linen. Christian wished, rather guiltily, that his arms were long enough to hold both women in his embrace at once. As it was, he offered the voluptuous courtesan the only comfort he could in the form of a gentle smile. She gave him a wobbly smile in return, and nodded her head as she blew her nose into her handkerchief squeaking incongruously like a mouse with a cold.

_Fortune's fool indeed_, he reflected bitterly. How could he have been so blind and so utterly self-centered? These poor girls were depending on the play to improve their lot in life, to lift them out of the gutter into respectability no less than Satine…_Satine…lying in her coffin, pale with false roses painted on her cheeks, her frozen hands clasping indecently living roses…_

"No," the poet whispered hoarsely.

Nini pulled away from him as he stiffened against her. "What're you thinking, ducks?"

"We can't – I can't let her – I have to do something."

_The Duke's hand upon her hand…the Duke's hand upon her neck…the Duke's hand inside her dress…_

"No." Christian repeated**, "**It can't happen, I won't let it happen."

"So what? What you think you're gonna do? You ain't gonna _save_ her?" Nini exclaimed in disbelief. He saw a growing look of alarm in her eyes. "Ain't you heard a word I said, lad? Or are you deaf as well's dumb? Satine's dyi –"

"According to whom, exactly – the almighty Harold Zidler?" Christian let go of Nini and paced around the narrow hallway like a caged tiger, tracing rapid circles around the two courtesans.

"Marie said the doctor said –" Mome began, but was hastily interrupted.

"Don't tell me Harold's lavished the best medical care on her!" Christian was nearly shouting again as he stopped in his tracks. "And just who is this 'doctor' anyway - the village barber? Or a charlatan who accepts chickens for payment?"

Nini placed her fists on her bony hips. "Watch what you say 'bout ol' Doc Halevy! 'e's fixed me up when I was inconvenienced," and she patted her flat belly significantly, "On more'n one occasion. But never mind that, what'er you plannin' to do Shakespeare?"

Christian blinked and absently shifted his gaze from one woman to the other, looking at but not really seeing them. "If Satine's ill, she needs to rest. She can hardly spend half the night with the Duke, then be expected to rehearse a new ending and perform in the show." He paced a few more steps and turned back to look at them, biting his thumbnail. "Someone has to tell the Duke."

The women exchanged glances, then looked at the nervous but determined poet suspiciously. "And I suppose that someone is you, ducks?" Nini asked with a raised brow.

"Why of course – who else?" He replied, setting his jaw firmly as the outline of a plan fashioned itself in his brain. "I'll just have to make him see that Satine cannot waste her energy – not with him, and not with hours of rehearsal in the morning."

Nini looked him up and down. "Right." She nodded to Mome Fromage. "We better find 'im a clean shirt to wear, that'n's filthy."

To say that Mome appeared dazed would have been an understatement; she looked as though someone had gripped her head and spun it in a complete circle atop her neck – and she had barely lived to tell the tale. She looked back and forth between the two of them. "Wait a minute. Why are you going to see the Duke, Chris, why not one of us?"

Christian opened his mouth to give her a quick answer and discovered there wasn't one. He has simply assumed he would deal with the Duke himself, but now he realized one of the courtesans would be better equipped to handle that duty.

…_The Duke's hand upon __**Nini's**__ hand…The Duke's hand upon __**Nini's**__ neck…The Duke's hand inside __**Nini's**__ dress…_

Suddenly he found that he couldn't stand that picture either.

"If I object to Satine going up there, how could I ask either of you?" Christian looked down at his hands, "Besides Nini, you're not the only one to blame for the Duke finding out about us. It was my thoughtlessness that endangered everyone, so it's my responsibility."

Nini looked down the hallway that led eventually to the leading lady's dressing room, then back at her companions with a resigned sigh. "Then who's gonna keep the Diamond distracted?"

"Certainly not you?" Mome asked, hands on her hips, head tilted to one side. "Satine would never trust you – you're as much to blame as Chris for spillin' the beans to the Duke. And you're a fool if you think Satine doesn't know it."

Nini shrugged and stared at her toes, digging the sharp point of one shoe into the ash of a days-old cigarette butt. "Yeah, well – maybe I ain't proud o' that no more. Besides everything you think rolls right across your face, girl. I can out act the Diamond when I put my mind to it." She flipped her hand at them in a dismissive gesture.

Christian lunged forward and caught her arm before she could leave. "Wait! What are you going to say to her?" Nini winced, and jerked her arm free, giving him a quick and nasty glare. He pulled his hand away, guiltily noticing the bruises already forming on her skin. "I'm sorry about those, I was a little out of my head."

"Mad with jealousy eh?" Nini grated out in that razor sharp tone she was famous for, and then winked at him slyly, with a crocked grin.

"Perhaps, just a little." He answered sheepishly. "Are you g-going to t-t-tell her?"

"What, tell 'er that she's dyin'? That she's coughin' up blood and havin' to hide it so's the rest o' us don't get thrown out on the street?" Nini gave a contemptuous toss of her head and walked a few steps away from Christian, only to turn back with that needle-like glare so he felt pinned in place. "That all 'er dreamin' about bein' the next Sarah," She rolled her eyes, "Is about to go down the crapper?"

Christian felt the blood drain from his face at the harsh reality of her words. "No!" He gasped as though out of breath himself, "You mustn't, that will only make her worse."

Mome shook her head, "She deserves to know the truth." Standing next to one another the women presented a united front – thought not without sympathy in their gaze.

"You know I weren't born yesterday, Shakespeare, I know 'ow to let some one down easy." Nini exchanged a wry glance with Mome, "Its part o' what I do, ain't it?" Don't worry, I won't be makin' 'er worse."

"Well, alright then." He sighed and squared his shoulders, tugging his waistcoat straight. "I'm off to reason with the Duke." Christian nodded to the girls, pivoting on his heel to depart for the tower. This time it was Nini who stopped him with a surprisingly strong grip.

"Be careful, boy; that Duke's no simple trick what can just be satisfied wi' a few pretty words."

"I've spent more time in His Grace's company than any of you." Christian lifted his chin, looking dismissively confident. "I know how to handle him."

Narrowing her eyes, Nini smirked. "Yeah, right. Well, Chris, don't say ol' Nini never warned you. Let's get you cleaned up first – that thug o' his ain't gonna let you up the stairs much less through the door lookin' like you slept in them clothes." She exchanged another knowing, sadly amused glace with Mome that went completely over Christian's head.

"A _very _nice shirt…and for once, a bloody collar."

9


	7. Chapter 7

**Bargain with the Devil**

The Duke paced before the open windows much as he had done the preceding nights. Now that he was faced with the truth of the situation – how he had been misused and abused by these showfolk despite his extraordinary generosity, and _despite_ his contract with Zidler - the thought of it just ate away at his insides. Jealousy was not his problem, or at least not when it came to Satine. No the animal gnawing away at his guts went by the name of pride. Why would any woman, most especially a whore, want a man with nothing but a pretty face and a way with words?

Oh, he could see why she found Christian attractive physically - any fool could see that. How many times had the nobleman pretended to be sharing glances with Satine whilst she practiced her lines with the boy, when in fact he was simply admiring the delectable backside of said boy? He'd lost count of the number of times he sat watching rehearsals when in reality, he sat admiring Christian's long legs as the young man perched on his stool, one of those legs swinging casually in the air.

So, he had no problem understanding the physical side of things, but the woman, whatever else she might be, was terrifyingly practical. With her looks, she didn't need to work as hard as she did to become an actress. Any number of men would have gladly married her and given her every material desire she could possibly want. But she had ignored these offers, to come to him because he had promised to make her dreams come true. Why then turn around and chose the boy over him – the man who would make her a star - when the only thing the writer could give her was the physical?

Satine was his by right, both by contract and purely by his station.

But oh…the poet.

Behind him the door burst open. Not the entrance he thought Satine would make but nonetheless, he turned with a smile to greet her, only to have it vanish in surprise as the other object of his desire crashed into the room. Christian was fighting off Warner's grasp with grim determination.

"What is going on here?" The Duke demanded.

"This little bastard came barging in here-"

"Let go of me you son of a b-"

"Enough!" The Duke shouted. The other two men froze; the young writer holding a fistful of the bigger man's jacket, and Warner gripping the boy's shoulder - each with a fist pulled back ready to strike. While the Duke felt certain as to the outcome of the contest, he had two interests in stopping it. One, while it might be satisfying to see Christian get the pounding he so richly deserved, it might be detrimental to his looks, and that could not be permitted. Two, seeing them side by side, the Duke realized that Warner was broader through the shoulder (and nearly everywhere else), but Christian was only slightly shorter and his fists, while less meaty, nonetheless looked strong enough to do some damage. Furthermore, the poet was more intelligent; he might know where to place a punch so as to inflict greater damage. "Just what is the meaning of this?"

Christian shrank away from the sound of his voice with far more trepidation than he showed at the thought of a beating. "I-I've come to speak with you, your Grace, on a p-private matter." Warner had let go of him, so Christian straightened his clothes and brushed his hair back off his forehead. He looked at the ground while he spoke, but when he finished; he lifted his eyes and met the Duke's gaze.

Returning the stare, the Duke nodded. "Leave us," he ordered his right-hand man simply. 

"But sir—" Warner looked completely baffled.

"I said leave us! Will you never learn to pay attention, you imbecile?" Jerking his attention away from Christian, the Duke growled at Warner.

Warner made an abrupt about-face and marched back through the door, shutting it behind him. The Duke could tell by the look on Christian's face that the boy wished he could have followed. "You wished to speak with me, young Master James? As I am expecting other company you will no doubt be brief?" He hid the grin that wanted to spread itself across his face. His use both of the poet's surname and the title one would give a little boy caught the young man off guard and a flush of red emanated from Christian's collar to spread quickly up his face and right to his hairline. The Duke knew just how to put an adversary off guard.

Apparently the poet was no slouch at surprising an adversary either. "I'm afraid your 'other company' isn't coming."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" The Duke reached Christian in three long strides and grabbed him by the collar, which immediately came loose.

"She is ill!" Christian declared, and wrenched himself away, his eyes narrowing with indignation and not a little anger. His collar came off in the Duke's hand with a faint tearing sound, and the pin holding it onto his shirt hit the floor with a faint ping and rolled off into a dark corner. The boy gasped, one hand grabbing at his empty shirtfront in disbelief, his eyes suddenly wide, and his righteous indignation vanishing. His eyes never left the Duke though, keeping him always in his sight in case of another attack.

Surprised himself, the Duke glanced down at the stiffened material in his hand and saw how the buttonhole was badly torn, both up and down. Clearly the collar was old and had barely been held in place before the Duke touched it. He could see the startled look in the boy's eyes and decided a little fear would only assist him in the coming discussion. Near enough to the fireplace, the Duke threw the collar into the flames in annoyance. "What trickery do you show folk mean to play on me now? Does Zidler think if he sends you that I will believe another wild story? I will not be made a fool of anymore!"

"But it's true!" Christian risked a step closer and squared his shoulders, lifting his chin to try for at least a semblance of dignity. "I don't know what nonsense Harold has been feeding you, but I'm not telling any tales. One of the other – one of the girls told me she overheard the doctor saying Satine was…" Suddenly words failed him and Christian dropped his eyes to stare at his feet.

The Duke felt an almost overpowering urge to reach out and cup the boy's chin, to run his thumb along that delectable lower lip; instead he ruthlessly quashed it and, coming within arm's length, continued to play on the intimidation factor. "That she was what, boy! Get on with it, my patience is wearing thin."

"S-she's d-dying." Christian whispered, his voice almost breaking. "She has the c-cuh-consumption." And for a wonder, actual tears began to spill down the boy's cheeks.

My God, the Duke thought, perhaps he's telling the truth. Still, I can't have him spoiling that marvelous complexion with tears the one chance I get to look at it alone with no distractions…

"What rubbish! How can she be dying? She spends 10 – 12 hours a day singing and dancing! No actress in the world is that good." His words had exactly their desired effect. Christian lifted his face and a wild look of hope filled his eyes. This gave the Duke reassurance that the boy was telling the truth – if the he could take comfort from just those few words, his worry had to be genuine. The younger man quickly wiped his eyes on his sleeve and a tentative smile crept onto his face.

"I do hope you are right, my lord, but I fear she truly is most terribly ill. Once the other girls pointed it out to me I remembered that I'd seen the signs myself. For weeks now she' been coughing all the time and just this morning I s-saw b-blood on her h-handkerchief. She told me it was lip paint…"

The Duke swallowed queasily, and decided that Christian had probably done him a favor in keeping Satine away. "So you are asking me to do what exactly? Give Satine the night off? She will still have to perform tomorrow; it is opening night. I should think you, the playwright, would remember that much."

Christian closed the distance between them and his tentative smile became eager, even hopeful. "Yes, but she will be able to sleep through the night tonight and most of the day tomorrow – that is, if we…don't change the ending?"

Shaking his head in dismay, smiling a little himself, the Duke couldn't believe how this boy could transform himself from a grieving lover into a pitiful puppy with just a tilt of his head – it was truly a wonder. "Fine, keep your fairy-tale ending!" Christian actually smiled with and sighed with relief, but the Duke would not let him off the hook that easily. He sent the boy a quelling look. "And, what about the rest of the schedule? Tell me that! What will we do about the rest of the performances?"

"Oh, I did think of that. Satine can still perform in the evening shows on Fridays and Saturdays, but Nini can take the weekday shows, and fill in if Satine is just too ill. For the first month at least; once the production up and running, Nini can take over entirely. Satine will then be free to rest while I write a new play." He had been pacing up and down before the Duke, gesturing at the air as he described his plan. Now Christian stopped to face the Duke again, looking pleased with his solution.

"Well, you've got it all worked out, haven't you?" The Duke folded his arms and did his own pacing. "There's just one problem. Zidler and I signed a contract, and if the terms of that contract cannot be fulfilled…" He stopped pacing and gave Christian an evil smile, "then the Moulin Rouge belongs to me."

"B-but she's ill, she can't possibly fulfill – and she shouldn't have to, she didn't sign –"

"She has a contract with Zidler! That will be enough for any court I care to take the case to." He watched Christian with the same fascination as a cat would watch a mouse.

The poet's eyes darted about the room wildly and the Duke could see him racking his brain for a solution. Stepping up to bring to the two of them within inches, the nobleman smiled and pounced. "I might be persuaded to accept a substitute, Master James."

Christian blinked, staring down at the Duke in shock, "M-my Lord, I d-don't know what you mean…" He shuddered and went white to the lips as the Duke reached out and slid one finger inside the open neck of the boy's shirt to trace his collarbone.

"You don't? Surely you went to school – a wordsmith like yourself?"

Making one last valiant effort to fight back, Christian stepped away and looked affronted. "Clearly not the same school you went to, your…Grace." His voice dripped with disgust on the last word.

The Duke smiled triumphantly, "No, likely not. Otherwise you wouldn't speak with that barbaric accent."

If he'd wondered whether or not the boy could get any paler, he wondered no more as Christian's skin took on a gray hue. He backed up until the back of his knees hit a chair and sat down with a thump. "What accent?" He asked, as though from very far away.

"The one you acquired when your father sent you away. I've no doubt he was tired of the rebellious streak you inherited from your mother." He grinned at the dawning look of horror in the younger man's eyes, "Oh yes, I've met him, your father. A more complete idiot I have never encountered. The man breeds himself two fine, obedient sons with his first wife and then decides he must have more and takes a Scotch wildcat on. She managed to escape the fool's clutches by dying in childbed – fortunate woman – but not before gifting him with you. And if my sources are correct, which they always are, your father left you with your mother's family in a little backwater pit of a village near Edinburgh, far removed from any real culture or sophistication. Oh, it's a suitable enough place in which to breed a hunting dog—I've owned several myself - but certainly not to produce a genuine man of letters."

He walked a few steps away and then circled back to a defeated-looking Christian. "You fools thought that I would believe you were a 'famous English writer'? Hah! A half-breed Scotch mongrel is what you are! You've never written a play before this and if I don't support you, you never will again!"

Christian had been staring at the Duke open-mouthed through the entire tirade; now he lowered his eyes to his lap, twisting his hands together. "The proper word is "Scottish"; scotch is a drink. And I did go to school in London, part of the time, so I do know…what you learned there."

"How dare you back-talk me you wretched brat! On your feet!" The Duke growled and dragged Christian to his feet by his shirtfront. The cheap material ripped and buttons popped off, dropping in a brief rain about their feet. "Well boy, what's it to be?"

The poet gulped so loudly that the sound reverberated off the cold stone walls. "It would appear I have no choice."

6


	8. Chapter 8

**Beautiful, Delicate…Fragile **

_It's for us…it's for us…it's for…_

The words repeated themselves mechanically in Satine's brain, as she stared at her own reflection in the dressing-table mirror. She stood gripping the edge of a heavily padded chair, and braced herself while Marie tugged and pulled to tighten the laces on her best corset. She glanced down at the monstrosity of a chair and frowned – the thing was embroidered with dainty flowers that contrasted sharply with the dark heavy wood of its construction. The chair had appeared shortly after she had moved into her new dressing room. The first morning Marie had started to dress her it became apparent that no convenient water pipe or ugly, heavy iron bedstead was available to hold onto while Marie tightened worn-out corset strings. After the less than lady-like scene of Satine holding onto the open doorframe while Marie laced her into her whalebone armor, the chair had appeared. No amount of decorative stitching could disguise the monstrosity's purpose.

"Girl, we'll make you—" the older woman's words were intermingled with huffs and puffs as she gave the strings another solid yank, "—so gorgeous—you'll have that Duke twisted—'round your finger so tight—he won't know whether he's—damn these strings, they always stretch—comin' or goin'."

Everything Satine saw in the mirror's reflection — the dressing table, the tasseled draperies over the bed, the crystal vases overflowing with roses, even the gilt-framed dressing table mirror itself — bespoke beauty and elegance. But somehow, tonight, it had all become like the make-up she wore and the gilt paint that decorated the Moulin Rouge – fake, hollow, and covering up something that was so much less than what it appeared to be

_I don't like this ending!_

It had all been such a wonderful game. She'd pretended to be a star actress and a real lady, wearing expensive, fashionable clothing during the day and awakening at daybreak, just like any other woman who hadn't lost her virginity at the age of thirteen and been making a living off it ever since. There had been the Duke to fawn over her during the day, and Christian to love her in the night.

Adding to the fun was the excitement of being in love and hiding it from the Duke. Like a pair of naughty children, they had made eyes at each other under the cover of rehearsing – sitting less than a few feet away from the man himself. It was strange how just a few words could wipe away the glamour of make-believe to reveal the ugly reality beneath.

…_I don't want you to sleep with him…_

"Just think on it – after tomorrow night you'll be – hailed as the greatest actress what ever lived – wretched corset; we're almost done, dearie – greater than Sarah Bernhardt, even."

A week ago, even yesterday, those words would have filled Satine with a joyous glow. Tonight, however, it only added to the sense of disillusion, and consequentially made her exhaustion worse. The dreamlike quality of the last several months had given her energy when none existed. Reality it seemed, was much more tiring than make-believe.

Yet everything about the room cried out that she had arrived - that all her dreams **were** about to come true. Even the garment Marie struggled with, the finest example of the corset-maker's art, fashioned of black silk trimmed with subtle gilt embroidery, was a thing of beauty. It was a far cry from the gray tinged, worn-edged contraptions that she'd worn only a few months ago. Those monstrosities had chafed and poked at her with cheap steel stays, and smelled of the previous owners no matter how often one washed them. Instead this gorgeous thing that any noblewoman would have felt proud to own was cutting off her air supply with its' oh-so-fashionable whalebone stays.

Each breath she did manage to draw in felt as though tinged with a searing flame. The whalebone stays had become an iron cage and with every tug on the constricting laces she was able to draw in less and less of the hotter and thicker air.

The corset taxed even Marie as she fought with the laces, pausing between tugs to gasp air herself. "You'll 'ave your name – on every marquee – of every theater in Europe. Maybe even America; high-class theaters, too – just another tug or two lovey, that should do it – only the best for my girl."

_...It's for us…it's for us…it's for us…_

_No, it's for YOU, Satine. _The voice of the "Sparkling Diamond" – brimming with her usual elegance, _hauteur_, and scathing wit – was unmistakable as it rang through Satine's head. _It's always been about you, hasn't it? Satine is the only person Satine has ever cared about. You might as well be honest with yourself. But then again, a courtesan isn't paid to be honest._

The burning sensation actually threatened to choke her and Satine barely managed to swallow the cough that she thought might bring up more than a handkerchief could catch. When would this horrid cough go away?

"The Duke's money," Marie murmured, "and your talent – it's a match made in heaven."

_I don't want you to sleep with him._

Satine remembered Christian's pained expression, his puppy-dog whine, and how his fingers were wrapped around her forearm so tightly it nearly cut off the circulation to her hand. She'd tried her best to soothe his fears, though she doubted that she'd been completely successful.

…_It will be all right…yes, it will…come what may…_

All the while she'd wanted to scream: _YOU don't want me to sleep with him? Do you really think that I do? Of course I don't want to sleep with him! You made me believe that it was all going to turn out right! You made me believe in the fairy tale…_

And in the bitter tang that arose in her throat, Satine tasted a new, foreign flavor: the bile of anger.

_Anger? _She clutched the back of the chair tightly and squeezed her eyes shut._ They don't pay courtesans to be angry, either – and that is what you are, you know. Born a harlot, die a harlot – there's no changing your stripes. You thought becoming an actress would change that? It's the same thing, just a better title. You think tonight will be the only night? Its just the beginning. The Duke won't be satisfied with one night. You thought because that silly little boy sang you a few insipid lyrics that you could just walk away and live a different life. You actually believed him? Grow up, Satine._

The courtesan-cum-actress opened her eyes and saw, in the mirror's reflection, a few stray tears roll down the cheeks Marie had skillfully powdered and rouged. Marie saw the tears as well, and paused in her labors; the stays loosened as she did so. Satine took advantage of the moment to allow herself a single deep breath.

"Girl?" Marie whispered.

Satine looked at the mirror's reflection into the depths of Marie's eyes and saw kindness there. She hoped Marie might embrace her and shush her fears away, as she had when the orphan was new to the Moulin Rouge.

"There, there, lovey," Marie had rocked her newest and youngest charge – not yet the "Sparkling Diamond", or even a "Diamond Dog" – in her arms after Satine's first night with a client. No doubt, he'd been as gentle a man as Harold could manage to find, but it mattered little to a frightened thirteen-year-old child. "It's 'ard the first time, I know, but it gets easier, much easier."

"Oh, M-M-Marie," the child leaned her head on the older woman's shoulder, and spoke between sobs, "I-it hurt. H-he – he hurt me. I-I feel – d-dirty."

"Dirty? You ain't dirty, not a bit of it! Wipe such thoughts from your mind, girl. After all, it weren't really you in there – "

"N-not me?"

"No, it weren't you 't'all. It were someone else – just think on it that way. Imagine you're flyin' away while someone else's lyin' there with the punter, sayin' those words, doin' the work." Marie counseled her charge with the wisdom and certainty that could only have come from hard experience. "And you get t'go away somewhere for a little while--"

"Go away? Where?" The girl wiped her runny nose on the sleeve of her green silk robe, a slightly tattered and oversized hand-me-down from an older courtesan.

"Anywhere you like; just fly away, in your mind. Then you come back when it's all done. A little practice is all it takes; soon you'll be as good at it as ole Marie ever was. You got my word on it."

Grown-up Satine smiled sadly at the memory, despite the pain, and wished that Marie would take her in her arms as she had done so many years before. Instead, Marie merely wiped Satine's tears with a yellowing, rouge-stained handkerchief, and sighed. "And after we got you all perfect and proper for that Duke."

"It doesn't matter Marie," Satine sighed disappointedly, "I can fix it myself."

"Don't talk nonsense; you'll do no such thing. The devil's in the details, dearie; that's what me mum always said." The older woman seemed to notice only then that her hand had gone slack on the corset strings. "Just let me finish lacing you up first."

"It's tight enough, I'm sure." She bit her lip in hopeful appeal.

Marie sighed and shook her head, tired sadness in her eyes. "You'll not fit in your new dress like this my girl." Her words rose at the end in humorous rebuke, but when she met Satine's eyes in the mirror, they were filled with apology. She nonetheless redoubled her efforts to close the silk-and-whalebone cage around Satine.

Trying to focus on anything but Marie's eyes, Satine again turned inward. Yes, this was anger she felt, but at whom? Her mind ranged over the garishly fabricated landscape of the Moulin Rouge. The Duke? He was only after what he'd been promised. Satine could almost find it in her heart to feel sorry for him. Certainly, no one had ever loved him, not as Christian loved her–

_Loves you? _The Diamond purred coolly. _If he loves you so much why didn't he comfort you? Why didn't he soothe YOUR fears? He seems pretty self-absorbed, if you ask me. No different from –_

"Marie, that's quite enough! I can hardly breathe as it is!" Satine was shocked by the harshness of her own tone - and so was Marie, judging from her astonished expression.

Nonetheless, Marie mutely tied the corset strings, and picked up the black silk petticoat and stockings from the bed. "C'mon, lovey; let's get you into these, and then I'll fix your face." The stockings were pulled up the length of the girl's coltish legs and fastened with the corset's silver garter clips. Satine then stepped into the center of the waiting petticoat as Marie held it open; expert hands swiftly tied the drawstring of the thin garment just above Satine's hips. All of this occurred in a strange silence, unusual to either woman.

Marie came around to appraise Satine from the front, dabbing the girl's spoilt make-up a last time and guiding her charge into the dressing chair. "Eh, it's not so bad – little powder'll do the trick."

Satine squeezed her eyes shut; the powder-puff tickled her skin, and the talc made her want to sneeze. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts though, a mess in the cold, black space behind her eyelids: _I don't want you to…it's for us…you promised me you wouldn't be jealous…it's for us…_

The opening and shutting of the dressing room door interrupted her dark reverie. For some reason she half-expected to see her own gentle poet, having heard her distress like an SOS telegraphed into his brain. Instead, she found a certain ebony-haired can-can dancer standing before her.

"What you doing 'ere?" Marie snapped, though even she sounded as tired as Satine felt, like having Nini show up to interfere was just icing on the cake. "Can't you see we're gettin' ready for –"

"Well, ya can forget about it 'cause there ain't gonna be no dinner in the Gothic Tower tonight." Nini planted her hands squarely on her hips. "The Duke called it off".

Satine exchanged a confused glance with Marie, "What nonsense is this Nini?"

Nini rolled her eyes, "I can't say it any plainer," Her voice lilted its usual nonchalance. "Bottom line is, ya ain't gotta sleep with him."

Marie marched up to Nini and pushed her nose into the girl's face. "If this is a joke, I don't see no punch line to it."

Nini leaned against the doorframe, her arms folded. Even when standing perfectly still she seemed to swagger. "T'ain't no joke –The Duke changed his mind and called it off; I was sent to tell ya. So yer precious Diamond needn't bother gettin' all dolled up."

"Why'd he call it off?" Marie demanded, "And why'd he send you instead of Harold or his own messenger to tell us?"

"I just 'appened to be the closest body around, is all."

The matron of the Moulin pushed past Nini on her way out the door, giving the girl a harsh once over that clearly promised dire consequences. "I'm goin' to Harold right now, and if I find out you're lyin' – "

"You can even go to the damned Duke for all what I care." Nini shrugged nonchalantly, the very picture of indifference. "I just know what I've been told."

For a moment, Marie kept her gaze locked with Nini's. "I smell trouble 'ere, I swear it. You're just jealous of Satine, always 'ave been."

"I ain't jealous o' no one – never 'ave been, never will be!" The dancer shot back with a toss of her head. "I don't need nobody tellin' me what I'm worth. I know who I am and what I am, and –" Here Nini directed her fierce gaze at Satine, " –I don't go lordin' it over others."

Satine burst out of her chair, her newly birthed anger having found a fresh target. "How dareyou speak to me in that manner! Leave my room at once!"

"Up to no good, I say." Marie growled, "We'll just see what Harold has to say about this!" And she bustled out the door in an angry rustle of petticoats.

"Say whatever you like, old biddy." Nini muttered under her breath, as she turned her gaze from Marie's retreating figure to meet Satine's angry glare.

"What are you up to?" Satine crossed to the screen to retrieve her kimono and thrust her arms into the sleeves. Drawing the garment around herself, she belted it tightly against the room's chill. "I just convinced the Duke to discuss the ending at supper, he wouldn't he suddenly call it off."

"Oh so you know every move he's going to make do you?" Nini smiled sarcastically, shut the door behind her as she sauntered into the room and stopped by the bed. She lifted the evening gown from the bed with one hand, fingering the fine material. "Nice. Real nice. Shame for it to go to waste." She dropped it with a desultory shrug.

"I daresay I know him far better than you do. I've spent months in his company, I can predict what he'll say in any situation."

"Yeah, I'm sure you know 'im like the back of your hand, after all you've been manipulatin' 'im for nearly a year. Still its funny ain't it how he managed to blindside you today? I guess if you'd spent a little more time with 'im and a little less with that fool poet you would've seen it comin'. Course if you and Shakespeare hadn't been playin' around behind his back, it never would 'ave happened at all, would it?"

"I had everything under control until you opened your mouth – and don't you try to deny it, I saw you talking to the Duke this afternoon during rehearsals!" Now Satine met Nini in the center of the room, easily towering over the smaller woman as she shook a thin finger in her face. "You're trying to win him over so you can take the lead in the show for yourself! Marie's right – you are jealous, and full of mischief besides!"

Nini swatted Satine's hand away and snorted in derision, "Really? What were you planning on doing tomorrow night then, eh? Suppose the show is the great success Harold's been shoutin' about? All o' us woulda been walkin' on air – like we'd each drained Toulouse's secret bottle ourselves. Plead you was tired when you shoulda been as high as the rest o' us?" She shook her head in disgust. "It ain't mischief I'm makin', its plain sense. You want to keep lying to yourself you just go right ahead, but you can't keep lying to the Duke or you're gonna drag the rest of down with you!"

"I don't have the slightest idea of what you are talking about." Satine lifted her chin and looked down her nose, "But I want you to take your wild stories and leave my room at once."

"Fine then," Nini turned on her heel with a dismissive flick of her fingers. "You go right ahead believing everything's just as you've planned it. The Duke ain't got a clue what's goin' on, you and Shakespeare will live happily ever after, and that's just lip paint in that hankie you're always clutchin' in your hand."

She might have ignored Nini and allowed the other dancer to exit without another word had she not thrust her hand into the pocket of her robe and pulled out one of those very handkerchiefs – bearing the tell-tale stain.

"I – I've got a little cold, perhaps, but it's nothing more than that." Satine pulled her gaze away from the crumpled linen and met Nini's eyes. As if to add more evidence to Nini's case, Satine felt her chest tighten and her throat constrict. She attempted to take a deep breath but the corset's rigid boning prevented her from taking in more than a thimbleful of air. When had this happened? She had worn corsets since before she could see over Marie's shoulder and even if they'd been tight, she'd at least been able to breath. Satine clutched at the bedpost, the nearest piece of furniture at hand to stave off the sudden wave of dizziness the lack of air had brought on. "And these endless rehearsals – I've been working so hard on this play –"

Nini clasped Satine by the upper arms and shook her…but gently. "You're sick, Diamond – Really sick, how plain do I 'ave to make it? We've **all** been workin' 'ard," She continued as she released Satine and perched herself on the edge of bed. "Some of us twice as 'ard as you have, and none of us has 'ad the show's writer coddlin' us."

Satine opened her mouth to voice her indignation, but Nini cut in before the other woman could say a word, "And none of us is turnin' into skeletons. None of us is faintin' and coughin' and spittin' up blood. Why do you think the Duke called off your little _rendezvous, _eh, Diamond? Yeah, he might be wrapped around your little finger, but I'll bet even he's seen the signs. Everyone knows 'ow sick you are, 'cept yourself."

"I'm willing to admit I have a cold."

Nini shook her head and laughed. "Girl, I figured you for a lot of things – conceited, self-centered, arrogant – but not stupid. Never stupid. Least not 'til now."

Satine's eyes widened and she stamped her foot indignantly, "How dare you? You little cockney guttersnipe!"

"Remember Isabel?" Nini asked softly.

Those two words were like a glass of cold water thrown over Satine's outrage. Her wordless and reluctant nod gave Nini permission to continue her narrative.

"Ruled this place back when you and I was just pups. Could out-dance, out-drink and out-whore all the rest o' us girls combined. Took on four customers a night, if I recall correctly, and enjoyed every one of 'em as if she weren't doin' it to earn her keep. What was that name she gave 'erself? 'Persephone, Queen of the Underworld'."

"Fancy words coming from such a vulgar mouth," Satine sniffed contemptuously. "She didn't know who 'Persephone' was; she just liked the sound of it. I remember how vulgar and slovenly she was – brayed like a mule and smelt like a barn."

"You turn your nose up now 'cause you've gotten so fine, but back then you were in awe of 'er, same as the rest o' us. She taught me everything I know about dancin' and then some." Nini tilted her head and looked Satine in the eye, "Then one day she's late for rehearsal – hadn't ever been late before – and then she was always late. Suddenly she didn't have the energy for more'n' one or two clients a night, and she didn't enjoy it no more. She 'ad all the other signs too – loosin' weight, coughin' day 'n' night, spittin' crimson into 'er hankie, and…Well you was there, you seen it all too."

Satine swallowed, nodding again, and wrapped her arms around the bedpost – for support or comfort she couldn't tell.

"She might a' gone on forever like that 'til she dropped dead on the dance floor, but Harold would never have that. Bad for business that'd be. He bundles her up in a cart like a bag of worn-out rags and sends her to a sanitarium – givin' her a little 'oliday in the country, he calls it. We all knew the truth, even if nobody said so – 'specially Isabel."

"She was so frightened," Satine whispered, confronted with the long-buried memory Nini had ruthlessly dragged to the surface. "I saw it in her eyes."

"But she didn't let on none. Too proud for that." The note of admiration was unmistakable in Nini's voice. "Remember what she said, eh? 'Don't go stealin' any o' my customers, 'cause I'll be back before you know it.' And that was the last we 'eard from 'er – till they buried 'er. Once they send a body to a place like that, you ain't comin' back 'cept in a box."

"Nini, what is your point?" Satine pressed her forehead against the bedpost, "I haven't got time for this trip down memory lane. I still have to finish dressing for the Duke."

The other woman stared at her open-mouthed, "I was wrong, you ain't stupid, you been lyin' to yourself so long you just can't see what's right in front of your face!" Nini leapt to her feet and shoved one hand into the pocket of Satine's robe. She pulled out the wadded handkerchief and shook it in Satine's face. "What the fuck is this then? Did you take it from Isabel's old things and keep it as a momento? This weren't lip paint then, and it ain't now!"

Satine snatched the linen square from Nini's hand, "That's ludicrous, Harold would have told me, he wouldn't be pressing me to be with the Duke if I were _dying_."

As if on cue, the portly owner of the Moulin Rouge sailed into the room, with Marie following in his wake. Harold's voice was stern, but very low, as if trying to bite back a great deal of anger and not make an unnecessary fuss. "Nini, what's going on here? I demand an answer. Satine should be making ready for her evening with the Duke."

Satine let go of the bedpost and met Zidler in the middle of the room. She looked up at him hopefully, but couldn't keep a hint of suspicious anger from her voice. "Harold, it's not true – is it?"

"The Duke never said a word to me about canceling – "

"No, I don't mean that. Tell Nini I'm not dying, that it's all in her head." She commanded him imperiously. Her confidence fled as she watched his round face deflate like a punctured balloon. "Marie?" She looked to her mentor for some comfort, for reassurance, and found none. Marie shook her head, her eyes brimming with as-yet-unshed tears. "It's true?" Another horrible thought appeared on top of that revelation, "You knew, Marie, and you didn't tell me?"

"Forgive us, lovey; we thought –"

" 'We'?_ Both_ of you?" Rage erupted inside her a thousand-fold. "I should have expected this from Harold, but from you Marie?"

The now-fallen tears made visible tracks in the powder thickly coating Marie's face. She closed the distance between herself and her beloved protégé, and took the girl's smooth hand into her own wrinkled one. "Don't be too hard on us, dearie. We only wanted t' do what was best –"

"Best for whom? Best for what?" Satine jerked her hand from Marie's grasp. "For the show, for the theater, for Harold's exchequer?"

Zidler himself stepped forward, and cleared his throat nervously. "Pigeon –"

"How dare you!" Satine closed the space between them and pushed her nose right into his face. "You pretended all this time that I was important to you, that I was practically a partner in this venture, when really I was only a device to get you what **you** wanted! What a clever act, Harold Zidler! What a piece of work you are!"

"Come now, Cherub; you mustn't overreact." He reached out pat her shoulder in a conciliatory manner, but she pulled away violently, despite the fact that spasms of coughing once more racked her too-thin frame.

"I'm not a child anymore! Don't talk to me as if I am!" She backed into the dressing table, and collapsed sideways into the chair.

Marie hurried forward, pulling the now-familiar vial of laudanum from her skirt-pocket. She held it out to Satine who instead of letting the older woman administer the drug, snatched it from her hand and tossed back a dose.

"Poppet, try and understand." Zidler hovered over her as close as he dared come, while she winced from the bitter flavors of opium and alcohol on her tongue.

"Oh, I understand perfectly." Satine's rasped viciously, "And I wish to God I didn't. Just go away." Her shoulders collapsed forward as she pressed her palms to her eyes trying to block out the rest of the world.

"Pigeon," Zidler cooed, "believe me, we couldn't –"

A knock on the door interrupted Zidler's attempted excuse. Satine uncovered her eyes as everyone else looked up at the sound.

"Excuse me," The figure of the Duke's manservant stood in the doorway, blocking all light from the hall. When no one spoke he continued, "I've been sent to inform you that Mademoiselle Satine's presence in the tower is no longer required this evening."

Nini cackled delightedly, "Ha! Told you didn't I? Does anyone believe old Nini? No, I'm the just only one who tells the truth around here."

"Yes, clearly you enjoy being the bearer of bad news." Satine raised her head and composed her features into a semblance of calm. "Kindly refrain from dancing on my grave in front me, will you?"

As if pretending that neither of the women had spoken, Harold addressed Warner with barely an eyebrow raised. "My dear man, why the sudden change of plans? I know the Duke was most keen that Mademoiselle Satine attend the supper this evening."

Warner shrugged with supreme indifference belied by the expression of amused condescension that lit his piggy eyes. "That is not for me to say Monsieur, I am merely the messenger." Before anyone could question him further, Warner bowed to the room at large and departed the way he'd come.

Apparently at a loss for words, possibly for the first time in his life, Zidler looked back and forth between the room full of women and the now empty doorway. Coming at last to a decision, he addressed Satine, "Well then, perhaps this is a chance for you to rest Pumpkin. I'll go and speak with the Duke and get to the bottom of this."

"What's the point Harold? Isn't it obvious? You know, Nini knows, apparently everyone knows, the Duke must know it too – I'm dying." Her voice dropped to a near whisper as the horrid reality of her words settled itself upon her, "I'm dying."


	9. Chapter 9

**Another Glass of Wine**

Lady M: _Don't think me too cruel to our Christian in this chapter, I love him dearly, but when I sent the germ of this story to Rosemarie, this was the germ._

Christian stared at the enormous bed and wondered how he had gotten himself into this impossible situation. The voice behind him was all the reminder he needed.

"Disrobe."

Trembling almost uncontrollably, he slipped the braces that held up his pants from his shoulders and let them fall to his sides. One snapped out of his shaking grip and struck his thumb. The boy gasped and stuck the offended digit in his mouth to soothe the burn. Reaching out with his other hand, he gripped one of the bedposts to steady himself as he removed his thumb from his mouth to unbutton his trousers. For a moment he stood there, wanting desperately to run, his pants hanging down precariously from his hips, and then slowly he shifted his hips left and right to let them slide down to the floor. His shirt came off easily as it had already been partially destroyed; he shrugged his shoulders and let the ruined cambric flutter to the floor.

As he lifted one foot to step out of his trousers, Christian realized that he'd forgotten to remove his shoes. Flushing with embarrassment, he bent to unbutton them. The sharp intake of breath from behind froze him in a partial crouch. Oh how he wanted to just crumple down into a puddle on the gleaming floor tiles! But a throat clearing followed the breath and a slight cough that made him think of Satine. This would her here, undressing, if it wasn't him.

Christian rose to his feet as newfound strength flowed through him. Holding his trousers up, he angrily kicked the shoes away, sending them sliding across the floor to strike a small table that held a decanter of wine. I've saved her from this, he thought, with something akin to relief. I wanted to die when I thought she would be here tonight, but now it is I, and no matter what else happens, I've saved her.

Stepping out of his pants and walking to the chair that sat next to the table, Christian calmly folded his pants and laid them on the chair. He unclipped his suspenders and slide off his stockings, sucking in a sharp breathe when his bare feet came into contact with the freezing floor. But He thanked whatever God there was for the cold as it kept him focused on his task as he removed his undershirt and added it to the pile. As he stood there in his last layer of protection, he hesitated, even though he could feel the Duke's impatience growing to fill the room.

He pictured his beloved muse again: he could see her sitting on the bed in his garret, eyes shining like stars on a deep blue field, as he undressed for her on a sunny afternoon when it had been joyous play. She giggled like a girl and bit her lip, as he fumbled opening the buttons of his shirt and he realized she might be just as nervous as he. His hands had trembled that time as well, from simple nervousness instead of fear, and from excitement as she boldly slid the shirt from his shoulders and stopped his shaking hands with hers'. "Here, let me do that for you…"

Closing his eyes and drawing strength from that memory, he untied the drawstring to his drawers and stepped lightly out of them, just like everyone else, one leg at a time. There was another accompanying gasp to this action, but Christian stayed calm and folded the thin garment carefully, so as to hide the two large holes in the seams, and placed it atop the others.

He cringed at the sound of footsteps and whimpered when a hand, large, and thick-fingered, clasped his backside. The other hand landed on his shoulder, caressing the fair, freckled skin with a featherlight touch. These were the hands of a man who had never performed a moment of manual labor, and whose every need was met by an uncounted number of servants. It was disconcerting that those hands should be as soft as Satine's were…perhaps he could simply imagine that it was she…

But that hope was dashed an instant later. "Oh, my boy, you are far more beautiful than I have ever imagined." The Duke's warm breath stirred the fine hairs on the back of Christian's neck and he found no sweet memory could stop his trembling now.

"Y-you've imagined me?" The poet didn't know whether to be flattered or repulsed. Christian felt the Duke press his lips to a particular spot on his left shoulder blade. The older man's mustache tickled the sensitive skin and Christian realized, feeling just a little light-headed, that it wasn't as bad as he thought it would be.

"Oh yes," The Duke purred, "I've imagined you many times." He slid one hand lightly over Christian's arm to take one of his hands and raise it to his mouth, kissing the tips of the fingers. "Your features are so very fine, yours' and Satine's both – one wonders how two such low-born specimens could turn out to be so attractive."

Unable to think of an answer to that statement that would not anger the other man, Christian wisely remained silent. He kept his eyes closed until the weightless kisses reached his chest and then could not stifle a moan of anguish. The Duke chuckled, but perhaps took pity on the wretched boy.

"You're breaking all out in goosebumps, my dear poet. Why don't you have a glass of wine? It will warm your blood." So saying, the Duke stepped around him, filled one of the glasses almost to the rim, and held it out to the trembling poet.

Not pausing to find out whether or not the wine was any good, Christian took the glass in both hands so he wouldn't drop it, and simply gulped it down and held it out to be refilled. The Duke smiled – an expression somewhere between sympathy and amusment that Christian did not like at all. Nonetheless, he took the second glass and drank it off as quickly as the first, swaying slightly with a sudden dizziness as he gripped the edge of the table and held out the glass once more.

The Duke laughed, "Easy boy, let's not have you falling down drunk!" He filled the glass again, but set it on the table and turned to place a hand in the small of Christian's back and propelled him towards the bed. "Go over there and get into bed." He gestured to the windows around them, "With all this glass its cold in here, and I wouldn't want you to catch a chill. Get under the covers while I bring you another glass."

Although the sight of the enormous bed should have frozen him in his tracks, Christian was only too happy to find cover and delay the inevitable. He yanked back the satin coverlet and silk sheets, and dropped rather ungracefully onto the bed. The Duke, who had followed him, gently laid the coverings over him and returned to the table.

As the trembling poet watched, the Duke removed his tie and laid it on the chair arm opposite of the one Christian's clothes were laid across. He glanced back, his eye catching the boy's, and smiled wickedly. Christian shut his eyes tightly, leaving only his hearing vulnerable to the sounds, rather than the sight, of the Duke undressing. For years to come, Christian would not be able to bear _hearing _someone undress. He would be the only man alive afraid of the sound of silk against skin.

All too soon the Duke's voice beside him made Christian open his eyes. Holding out yet another full glass of wine, the Duke took the poet's trembling hands and wrapped them around the glass. The boy was frozen, staring at the other man's form. Caught entirely by surprise in the rush of events, the last thing he would have ever imagined was the sight of the Duke – utterly naked.

In spite of the cold, the older man moved without a tremor. He was pale as milk, and slender, without a single ounce of extra flesh. Even without his elegant clothing, the Duke was still in command. With his predatory smile and graceful movement, he possessed the beauty and paralyzing charm of a serpent. Christian, the mouse trapped by the spell of the Duke's gaze, could only stare and hope the first strike would not be painful.

The Duke sauntered around the bed, drew back the covers and climbed in on the other side. When he broke his gaze to look down, Christian took a long drink from his glass. When he lowered it the Duke reached out and took the glass from his hand and drained it himself. Christian felt an odd rush of petulant annoyance, "Wait! I thought that was for-"

The Duke silenced Christian by putting one finger over his mouth. His lips lifted in a smile that Christian thought one would normally reserve for a beloved but naughty pet. Setting the glass on one of the bedside tables, the Duke turned back to Christian and cupping his cheek in one hand kissed him.

It was so swiftly executed that Christian was taken completely by surprise and gasped aloud, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping. The Duke took full advantage of this and slipped his tongue inside Christian's open mouth, tasting the poet's wine-drenched lips and tongue. The Duke's hand slid from the younger man's cheek, stroking his throat, coming to rest on his shoulder. His other hand cupped the back of Christian's head, burying itself in the boy's thick hair.

Christian felt as though he had completely lost control. While he'd certainly drunk more than three glasses of wine before (although these were big glasses – goblets would be the more appropriate word), it had never been in such odd circumstances, or without being accompanied by a full meal. Today, the last day before opening night, Christian had had nothing more than tea and a piece of toast that morning. His emotions in turmoil and his control all but gone, he simply gave in to the physical and returned the kiss.

The Duke reacted swiftly and pushed the poet onto his back, his hands skating over the younger man's chest, down to his waist, one hand stopping to stroke Christian's belly while the other cupped one cheek of the boy's shapely backside. Tilting his head, he kissed the corner of Christian's mouth and down along his jawline to the hollow of his throat and the edge of his collarbone. When the lingering kisses reached one of the boy's small brown nipples Christian cried out and clutched at the Duke's shoulders, his fingers digging into the other man's flesh.

The combination of intoxication, fear, anger, and arousal transformed the poet whose awareness existed largely in his intellect into a creature who existed only in the flesh. Satine's lovemaking was gentle and patient. Sex with the Duke was gentler than expected, but he was anything but patient. When his warm wet mouth fastened on the boy's nipple—the man's moustache tickling the sensitive skin, the quick, light nips of his teeth heightening the excitement—Christian fled into a corner of the poet's brain. The being that remained cried out in passion and gave in to the encounter.


	10. Chapter 10

**Unintended Consequences **

I shut the door firmly but quietly – Jesus God, I didn't want to wake her! Two hours of handholding, coaxing (Me! Coaxing someone, anyone, especially the Sparkling Diamond, was too impossible to be believed!) laudanum down her throat, tucking her into bed with the pillows piled just so, and her weepin' and whinin' like a girl all the while…it were enough to drive me right over the bloody edge. But – hell, I guess I deserved it. Shoulda been me that went up those tower steps and his penniless majesty who went to break the news to Satine. Don't suppose I could've told him that though. A question for the ages that one is. If I'd 'a told him he wasn't comin' down those steps without his arsehole unstretched, do ya suppose he'd've gone anyway?

Of course I didn't have to do it – but like I said, I deserved it, well enough, so there's nothing to do but suck it in and take my punishment. Sure I was cheering her on when she threw that tub o' guts Zidler out the door, but I could've stuck up for Marie and let her play nursemaid – I dare say she's had plenty of practice. I coulda told Satine what the doctor said last month but I didn't – it weren't my place after all. It was theirs to tell and they should've. I ain't much for rules, but there's things that are proper and things that are not. Shoulda been them spillin' the beans months ago instead of me, tonight, before opening night. Zidler should have been explaining to the Duke while there was time to find a substitute for Satine on stage as well as between the sheets. Chills even my blood just thinking about it – if that's how Zidler treats his precious star, his chickpea and all that rot, what'd he have done to any o' the rest of us in the same situation? And Marie? If that's who Satine counts as her friend, well, then I'll take a solid fucking' enemy every single time.

But this were so plain in her face even Miss Nose-in-the-Air had to see what's what. So she sent Zidler and Marie out o' the room, caterwauling all the while, and I stayed. Someone had to make sure she didn't go wanderin' out lookin' for that boy o' hers. Not that it were likely, not in her state o' mind but I couldn't risk it. The poet had a job to do, and so did I. Didn't know what to do at first but she made it easy for me. Never thought I'd be thankin' God for that henna-haired tart's self-centeredness - all I had to do was stand there while she babbled on and on.

"It isn't fair – it's not fair! I can't be – _mon dieu_!" She bit back the word "dying" as if it were too ugly a thing for her pretty little mouth to say, although she didn't look so precious then, sittin' before the looking glass with her bony elbows propped on the dressin' table and her fingertips pressed against her temples. Her eyes was squeezed shut and her face was all contorted, just like one o' them oriental masks in Toulouse's collection that the little painter was so damn proud of showin' off to anyone what walked in his studio. "It's just not right! I've worked so hard, and I'm so close – so close to having everything. It just can't end this way!"

"Sure," I snorted. She looked up at me in the mirror's reflection, surprised, like she'd forgotten anyone was there listenin'. "This is all about you, ain't it? Just like always. Never mind the rest of us and our shattered dreams. No, that be too much to expect o' your Porcelain Highness, to think about someone else for a change."

She turned in 'er chair to face me then, all right, eye narrowed to cat-like slits. "Did you ever ask yourself why I didn't run away with Christian months ago? I could have, you know; it would have made my life so much easier than it has been."

"You, run away? Not bloody likely, not after you've been chasing' your hoity-toity dreams of stardom all these – "

"It not just my dreams that are at stake!" She jumped out of the chair, eyes all a-fire like some harpie that was set to tear me to pieces. I thought she might actually do it, too, might fly right at me and wrap those stick-like fingers around me neck; but I guess that called for more strength than she had, 'cause she clung to the back o' the chair with one hand and settled for shakin' her finger at me instead. "Do you really think I don't know that? If the show does _not_ go on – if I cannot go on – then it affects everyone here at the Moulin: Harold, Marie, Chocolat, all the girls. Even you, Nini Legs-in-the-Air, you smug little tramp!"

"You expect me to believe that all them months you was gallivantin' around with that boy right under the Duke's very nose, you had _my _best interests at 'eart?"

She sank back in her chair, as if she'd used up every crumb of energy left in her, and it was all too much – facin' the truth was just too damn much. "Believe whatever you like, then."

"I thought as much," I muttered, wanderin' over to the marble mantelpiece. Like everythin' else in this room it was all grand looks, all show; the fire in the hearth was fadin', and the heat that come from it weren't no better than what the rest o'us girls enjoyed from the potbellied coal stove in the common backstage dressin' area. Throwing another log on the cinders would o' helped, but I weren't no damn scullery maid, just 'cause the Diamond thought she was too precious to dirty her hands.

I turned my back to the mantel, feelin' what little warmth there was done to me bones, wishin' like anything I had me cigs with me. Satine was still sittin' in front of her dressin' table with her arms wrapped around her, shiverin' a bit, facin' the mirror but not really lookin' at it. Her eyes was half-closed and unfocused, the way Rico's are when he's wakin' up from one o' his fits. I couldn't decide what were more unsettlin' – seein' her in a rage moments ago or this way, all at loose ends, the fight gone out o' her.

"Was it worth it?" The words just jumped right off o' me tongue almost before I'd even thought them through. When she didn't respond, not even look at me, I went on. "Livin' a double life, workin' ten hour days, doin' the Devil knows what and sneakin' around behind the Duke's back – was it worth it?"

She smiled all o' a sudden and the anger and fear just melted away. There was a long piece of red silk that'd been sitting on her dressing table along with all the bottles and jars. It was only when she picked it up that I realized it weren't no scarf, it was a man's tie. Rubbin' the thick silk against her cheek she closed her eyes and sighed. "Really Nini, do you even have to ask?"

Not after that little performance I didn't. But then, who am I to be so cynical? After all, just a few hours ago he'd been shakin' me and I'd thought it was a good thing I was furious with him, otherwise I'd have probably jumped on him and shown him what it was like to be a _real _woman, not a pasty-faced doll. So yeah, I could see what she saw in him – you'd have to be blind not to. The thing of it was, I knew that the Duke saw it too. Everyone knew it, 'cept Satine. Self-centered she may be, but even she must'a been blind - or crazy - not to have noticed the Duke's eyes rovin' over the boy's backside all these months.

If that's what being "in love" does to a body, it's no wonder Zidler's so hard set against it.

"How will I tell Christian?" She said it out loud but I didn't think she was talkin' to me, not really, lettin' her tears roll onto the red silk. "However will I tell him…oh – oh!" Her eyes flew open right then, and I swear if I ain't never seen a look o' 'terror' on nobody's face before, I seen it right then. "What if I've given him – what if he's – oh God, what have I done?" Her words was mangled up in a scream that were the harshest, most pitiful sound what's ever hit me ears. "How am I going to – what shall I – how can I tell him?"

"For tonight you ain't tellin' 'im nothin' – hush now, Diamond." She dropped the red silk in her lap as she clung to me – me! – all o' a sudden, as stupid and helpless as a babe, while I reached in her dressin' table drawer for a clean bit o' linen to mop her face with. All o' Marie's handiwork was runnin' in streaks, but the sight o' it – o' her this way – didn't give me satisfaction like I'd thought it would have done. No, it terrified me too, though I wouldn't have let her see that for the world and then some. But she were right, what she'd said before – her dreams and mine and everyone else's was all bound together. Maybe that's part o' why I'd hated her so much all these years: because we needed her, or thought we did, whether we liked it or not. I wiped 'er face with the bit o' muslin I'd grabbed; it could have been a hankerchief or a piece o' her dainty underwear, I didn't know, didn't care. But I couldn't help noticin' that the frilly lace on it were probably worth more than what I earned in a whole months wages. I also couldn't help noticin' that her cheeks was so hollow, so sharp beneath me hand.

"I have to find him –"

"Hush, you ain't goin' anywheres tonight. Last I 'eard, Toulouse and the rest o' them bohos dragged 'im off for a little night on the town – bit o' a celebration I guess. They're probably all hand-in-hand with the Green Fairy right about now. They could be anywheres in the village, or all o' Paris for that matter. 'ere," I handed her the soaked and soiled rag, and she eyed me suspiciously. "Go on, blow your nose."

She looked down at the bit o' cloth. "This is a corset cover, Nini." I shrugged and she accepted it anyway, sighing mightily. "Whatever will I do?"

"You're goin' to go to bed, that's what. You've got a long day tomorrow, we all do. 'sides, you don't really want Shakespeare seein' you unraveled at all ends, do you? Course not. And he'd 'ave me 'ead on a pike if 'e thought I was keepin' 'is princess from gettin' her beauty sleep."

That made her smile, a little, despite herself, and she shook her head obediently. For once in her life I swear she was so muddle-headed that right then I coulda told her to jump off the windowsill and try to take flight, and she might o'done it. (And don't think I didn't consider it, either.)

"Thank you, Nini." I couldn't remember the last time I heard those words come out o' her mouth, the last time I'd seen her express gratitude toward someone else – someone what wasn't payin' her, that is.

So I stayed around to play nursemaid – don't let it ever be said that Nini Legs-in-the-Air can't act with the best of 'em, when the need arises! I helped her out of her clothes and didn't comment on her ribcage. I brushed her hair and held out a handkerchief for her to cough into, as if I didn't even notice how yellow all her handkerchiefs are. Yeah, I even threw another log on the fire – sick as she was I couldn't have her catching a chill on top of it all.

Then I bundled her into bed and held her hand, and let her cry slow tears over all that should have been. Hell, I even kissed her (on her forehead, mind, I ain't no fool!) and comforted her the way we did when we were girls and our lives in this glittering dungheap were still new and raw. I let her go on and on about the poet and his many fine qualities and all her silly dreams until at last it wore her down. Her eyes closed and I left, hoping that she wouldn't be disturbed.

There weren't no one about in the hall thankfully, so I went to my favorite spot under the back stairs and found my cigs on the floor where I'd dropped them earlier. I lit up a fag, drew the smoke back, and breathed a little easier watchin' the white trail waft up through the steps. Would Satine make it through the night? I couldn't be sure. When I helped her undress I saw that she was much thinner than before. Don't get me wrong, she's always been a stick compared to the rest of us, but now I could count every one of her ribs. Alone in that fancy dressing room of hers, she's been able to hide how bad its really gotten.

What would happen, if she couldn't perform in the show tomorrow? I hated to admit how much I wanted her to live, if only for one night. Sure I could take over her role, and be damned good at it – I could finally show Harold and the Duke, Shakespeare and the whole damn world what a wonder I'd be, if only they could wipe the sparkle that is Satine out o' their eyes for one minute. But, take over the role overnight? With one rehearsal? Not bloody likely, even for me, and I'm a professional.

I sucked down the rest of the fag, watched the ash drop to the floor and stubbed it out with my foot, feelin' near as tired to the bone as the Diamond had looked. Yes, I would have stayed to guard her door if I could, but I've got to get some rest. After all, I let her darlin' boy go off to be her stand-in and think I'll shortly be in for another session of hand-holdin' and sympathetic caresses.


	11. Chapter 11

**An Old Courtesan's Prayer**

Marie lowered her knees to a generously padded stool in the corner of her bedroom, ignoring for once the noisy complaints of her rheumatic joints. Plumbing the depths of her skirt pocket with her hand, she finally pulled out a crucifix of black ebony beads given to her on the event of her First Communion by her grandmother. Marie barely remembered the day, back when she had been the daughter of an ordinary bourgosie – a butcher and his wife, in this instance – with the prospect of a life of dull respectability ahead of her. The beads were much worn by handling over the years.

Nailed to the wall in front of her was a simple wood and bronze crucifix, also given to her by her grandmother; the figure of the tormented Christ was nearly lost the against the bold floral wallpaper pattern. Just below it was a shelf that might have served as a sort of altar – but a decidedly pagan one, dedicated to a goddess rather than to God. Photographs of Satine were arrayed for Marie's contemplation, along with framed handbills trumpeting the "Satine, the Sparkling Diamond" as the main attraction of the Moulin Rouge. Marie's eyes swept the black and white cards and realized to her chagrin that every one of those images portrayed the Moulin's star in her many guises and characters - the demure innocent with downcast eyes, the naughty schoolgirl begging to be spanked, the irresistable siren of ancient myth luring men to their estactic deaths – all in the appropriate costume and sporting the appropriate facial expressions, all displaying indecent amounts of stockinged thigh or creamy bosom.

But not one showed Satine as just Satine, out of costume and out of character. The closest was a none-too-flattering image a photographer had snapped one afternoon between rehearsals, of a bored, indecently-dressed young dancer slouched forward in a café chair – as much as her tightly-laced black basque would allow her to slump, at any rate. Not one image existed of the young woman who sipped peppermint tea on Sunday mornings, and who cradled her head in Marie's lap to allow the older woman to brush her hair; of the girl who cared little for glittering jewelry despite her professional moniker, but adored fine dresses and loved for nothing better than to sheathe her slender figure in silk and lace. Who could be guarded and aloof in the presence of strangers, and imperious towards perceived rivals, but was the very soul of tenderness to the pet songbirds that ate crumbs from her hand and were allowed to snuggle on her bosom while she stroked their feathered heads and cooed at them softly.

Nor was there any visual record of the progress she had made from the underfed ragamuffin Harold had brought home one bitterly cold afternoon, with the lanky body of an adolescent boy and blue eyes that took up nearly her entire face – what could be seen of it beneath a shock of frizzy orange-red hair – to the sophisticated, silken-tressed beauty she had become at Harold and Marie's careful tutelage. Together they had molded and groomed her to win acclaim and take her rightful place in the cream of society – whether on the stages of the continent's greatest theaters or in the bedrooms of Europe's crowned heads.

Marie sighed as she wrapped the rosary around her wrinkled hands. The tortured face of Christ on the wall above her seemed to mirror her own agony like never before, and she found it painful to even look at. So she kept her eyes fixed to the photographs, though her mind's eye saw the Satine she knew and loved – not the creature lusted and longed for by every rich man who frequented the Moulin and every poor man who wished to walk in the doors but for lack of funds.

"God, I know I ain't been one for prayin' much, and I know I probably ain't got a right to be askin' you any favors what with the life I've led. But believe me, I wouldn't be here askin' if it weren't awful important. Please, Lord, if you can find it in your heart to have a little pity on an old bawd like me, then I beg you to spare the life of me girl. Satine's a good girl, she is; she just never had a chance, is all. If she ever sinned it weren't her fault; the blame's all to be laid on me and Harry – we didn't bring her up right. I should've raised her proper the minute he brought her in off the streets; I should have sent her away to a convent school, so's she might have had a chance at a respectable life. Instead I was selfish, Lord, wantin' at my side, feedin' her with fantasies of fame, teachin' her how to whore herself when she was barely more than just a babe. And Harry – well, he's as greedy a man as ever there was, but he's got some good in his heart and he loves her deep down, I know he does. But he's got his own accounts to settle with you, so I'll say no more about that."

"And yes, I know she can be difficult at times, God, and terribly vain, but the fault's none of her's – we indulged her too much, I know. She don't deserve to suffer like this, Lord, and she can't die, not yet. Take me, if you gotta take anyone; no one will miss this withered old whore. She's so young, so beautiful, and she's got so much to give, I know she does! Don't punish her for our sins, I beg you. I swear if you spare me girl I'll mend my errin' ways, Lord, I will; I'll go to Mass every Sunday right regular and I'll – I'll…hell, I'll even marry that old windbag Harold Zidler like I should have years ago, if he'll still have me."

"That's all I have to say, Lord. I hope you'll consider it carefully, 'cause if I never asked anything of you before, I'm asking this of you now."


	12. Chapter 12

**Trying to Get Clean**

When Christian stumbled in from the hallway that led from the Gothic Tower to the Moulin Rouge proper, he was not truly surprised that Môme Fromage sat on a chair by the door waiting for him. Belying her formidable size, she rose gracefully to her feet, wordlessly took his arm, and led him through the intersecting hallways until they reached the back rooms that housed the dancers sleeping quarters. Although he had passed by these rooms, he'd never actually been inside any of them.

In spite of his preoccupation, Christian couldn't stop himself from examining the room. As ever, he was a slave to the writing muse that drove his very existence. Simple iron beds with thin mattresses were stacked three layers high along most of the walls; a few of the beds were still occupied by sleeping courtesans-turned-chorus girls. Any remaining wall space was filled with the accoutrements of the girls' profession: racks of dresses, shelves of hats and shoes, and boxes of props, all looking rather cheap and tawdry away from the hazy glamour of the stage lights. The low ceiling was a maze of open pipe work that dripped in several places, caught in strategically placed pitchers and buckets under each leak.

Somehow, the girls had found space for three or more well-used dressing tables with their accompanying cracked mirrors. The majority of them congregated before these tables, talking, joking, and teasing one another as they practiced lines and sang verses to align harmonies or experimented with make-up and headdresses. They relaxed unself-consciously in various states of nudity and near-nudity that would have caused the modest poet to blush prior to this. Now, he barely noticed it as Mome led him down the length of the room.

Fragments of conversation drifted past him creating a pleasant background noise that allowed his mind to wander without dwelling on any particular topic. "…no, Prissy, that ain't right at all…So he tells me I'm more beautiful than the Mona Lisa…Be a love, Dru, and feed me the line…Must think I fell off a dung-cart yesterday…A little higher with the blush, that's better…The line is 'My lord Maharajah', not 'Your sword Maharajah'…Wait, wait, I remember it now…and I says, who the hell's this Mona Lisa you been seein' behind my back?"

None of the girls treated his appearance in their private quarters as if it was anything more than an everyday occurrence. As he passed the ones nearest him reached over and kissed his cheek or petted his arm, but none made a fuss, stopped their conversation, or moved to touch him if he was too far away. It was much the same as his aunt and female cousins would treat him if he came into the kitchen while they were cooking. He made contact with Arabia's deep brown eyes briefly and she grinned and tipped him a wink before returning to her conversation with Petite Princesse – it was uncanny – as though he'd become part of their little group overnight.

He froze in his tracks and cringed mentally - all these girls _**knew**_! Without meaning to, he _**had**_ become a part of their group. In that instant he wanted to turn right around and run out of the theater and across the boulevard to his garret so he might find a dark corner and wrap himself up in his private misery. Môme had other ideas; her large hand had never released its grip on his arm. Gently but firmly, she led him past the other girls and over to the far corner where a series of screens blocked off an area about the size of a large bed.

When they slipped past the screens a large copper tub full of steaming water awaited him patiently in one corner. Stunned into submission by this kindness, Christian gave no protest when Môme took him by the shoulders and led him to a rickety chair beside the tub. Tattoo and Babydoll appeared and gently undressed him; he would have protested the day before if they had taken this liberty, but after the night he'd had, he didn't even object when they matter-of-factly pulled him to his feet to remove his final layer of clothing. He even allowed them to help him into the water. Aside from Tattoo's one quick, sharp gasp when his back was turned to them (he forced himself not to imagine why she gasped), both girls behaved as though undressing and bathing him was simply part of their normal routine.

Soap and soft cloths appeared from nowhere, and the girls quickly washed him from head to toe. He wished they would go away and leave him to his anguish, but apparently, none of them believed in self-pity. Once they judged him clean, by some unspoken agreement, they helped him to his feet and rinsed him off with cool water poured over him out of a large crockery pitcher. Christian shivered involuntarily and delivered reproachful looks to his impromptu caregivers. The girls grinned at each other over his head and then helped him out of the tub, dried him off, and dressed him again in some of his own clothes. Apparently, someone – he didn't ask who it was nor did he care – had gone to his flat across the way to fetch a clean set during the last few hours.

Had it only been a few hours? It felt like years had passed. And the winsome, innocent, determined boy who'd gone up those tower steps had not come back down.

He would never come down.

Rubbing his hands together, either to warm them or remove the dirt that no soaking would, Christian watched as two of the stagehands took the tub away. Although the bath had helped, he wished he could have sat in the water for at least a couple of hours, if not days. He didn't think anything could make him feel truly clean again.

Môme's attempt at a smile was sympathetic and rueful as she pushed Christian into a chair by the door and carefully laid a quilt from an unoccupied bed around his shoulders. He would have found her voluptuousness overwhelming at any other time, but now he only vaguely registered her presence. The touch of her hands and the faint scent of cheap, flowery perfume from her skin simply melted into the background.

No sooner had she gone then Babydoll emerged from the organized chaos of the room, to set a cup of hot tea in his hands, offering him a smile of her own as well. When she walked away Tattoo returned to gently rub his hair with a towel and run a comb through it; the inked patterns of red, blue, yellow and green that covered her skin flashed in front of his eyes, but only barely registered in his brain.

Although he was largely oblivious to their ministrations (_…I can be persuaded to accept a substitute…yeah, she's dyin'…oh, my beautiful boy…red, blue, yellow, green…)_ it slowly, if oddly, became comforting. The diminutive Petite Princesse straightened from tying his shoes, patted his knee encouragingly, and turned to pick up an exotic headdress from the bed. She sat it in place atop her coppery curls; as she was barely taller than the top of the near-by dressing table, she had to grab a hand mirror to check her appearance.

"What do you think Chris?"

He opened his mouth to give her a thoughtless, off-hand answer, but the headdress itself suddenly distracted him. "Is there a portion missing on the left side?"

La Petite's eyes widened as if witnessing some great horror when she lifted the mirror before her face again. "Mon Dieu!" She scrambled through the bedclothes until she came up with the wayward section. When she turned back to him, both her headdress and her smile returned to their full glory. "Ah Chris, you're a love!" She stretched on her bare toes and kissed his cheek.

Before he could answer her a shout of "Hey there, _Princesse_!" from somewhere in the back of the room caught the dancer's attention and she whirled away; another girl claimed the empty space in front of Christian to ask his opinion, and then another girl after her. As if someone had thrown a switch, he was subsumed into the ongoing conversation and activities. Every time he thought he might excuse himself and go home to wallow in his malaise, another girl would have a dance move to show him, or want his opinion on her costume.

"Monsieur Director, I've been working on this here turn for months – it's a little tricky – see? Have I got it right?"

"When we come down them stairs for the weddin' ceremony should I be holdin' my arms up like this – or like this?"

"I don't know about this color on me; maman always said that yellow made me look like Death's Daughter. Don't you think I'd look better in pink?"

Tattoo brought up a chair and sat beside him, a cracked teacup in her free hand and a bottle of whiskey tucked in the crook of her arm. "Can I top you off?" She offered jauntily, tipping the bottle into her own cup. Babydoll sat on his other side on one of the beds. Petite Princesse climbed up on the bed to stand behind her so she could wrap up the other girl's wet, acid-blond hair to make rag curls.

He wanted to tell them all to go away and leave him the hell alone, and at the same time, when another girl came to stand beside him, leaning on his chair and running her fingers through his hair, he wanted to stay there forever.

"Mon Dieu, Babe'." _La Petite _wrinkled her nose as she worked. "Whatever are you using to color your hair?"

"Ancient family recipe." Babydoll giggled at her own wit.

"Whatever it is I wish you'd stop using it; it stinks to high Heaven."

Tattoo lowered the cup from her lips and smirked. "Heaven's an awfully long way off from here. Petite's right – that stuff does stink, Baby. Reminds me of the smelly feet of a certain Lord – oh, Lord what's his name?"

_La Petite _chuckled as she examined her handiwork. "I know who you're talking about! All that money the man has, you'd think he'd smell like roses."

"If you think that's bad –" Christian opened his mouth to comment on the Duke's breath – and barely stopped himself in time.

"What you'd say, Chris?"

"Erm, n-nothing. Nothing at all." _I'm one of them, Heaven help me…I belong here._

Slipping past the stagehands that were taking the tub full of cooling water away, Nini slunk into the room, looking rather tired and unusually sad. When her gaze met Christian's, an expression somewhere between amusement and sorrow crept onto her face, as she took in the sight of him and his new family. " 'avin' a little tea party 'ere, are we?" The thickest-skinned prostitute in Paris appeared for all the world to be unable to decide whether to laugh or cry.

"D-don't be disappointed with me, Nini, I did my b-best." Christian choked, and he gave a little semi-hysterical laugh. "In fact, you could say I gave it everything I have." Before he could say another word she was at his side, wrapping her arms around him and holding him tightly as the other girls discretely melted away into the throng.

"Now none o' tha', ducks. A strong, smart lad like you shouldn't be cryin' like us girls all did the first time!" She watched while he turned his face away and shuttered himself from her knowing gaze. "You don't have ta say nothin' if ya don't want to. I can see 't all."

He quickly pulled away from her and vigorously wiped his face with the backs of his hands.

"You wanted to teach me a thing or two about the truth, didn't you, Nini?" An edge of bitterness settled into his tone. "Well, it was quite an education I had last night. And it was ugly, just as you said." He narrowed his eyes accusingly. "D-did you know h-he would – "

"I had me suspicions, sure enough, but there weren't no stoppin' you from going up there. I could see it in yer face."

He rubbed his hands together and nodded in agreement. She took him by the shoulders and gave him a gentle shake. "C'mon now, Shakespeare - best be getting' back to yer own flat. You get some food in yer belly and catch some rest if you can. We all got a long day ahead o' us." She pulled him to his feet and tucked his already rumpled shirt into his trousers. "Can't have our show's writer wandering around lookin' like a two _sous_ bum off the street, can we? There, that's better. "

Nini led him by the elbow into the dim hallway; there were few windows within the back halls of the Moulin, giving the interior a sense of eternal twilight that the meager bulbs from Zidler's wall sconces couldn't banish. "Satine's restin' now, but when ya see her tonight – "

"Satine?" The shock in his voice gave away the fact that he had not thought of her in hours, and Nini smirked. It would do him some good to think about someone else's problems rather than his own right now, she decided. "Nini did you tell her that – that she's - ?"

"Not in so many words – I just laid out the clues and let 'er put it together."

"I should've been the one –"

"You couldn't 'ave. You'd' 'ave fallen apart. She don't need that right now and neither do you."

"I managed to survive last night, didn't I?" he nearly hissed.

"That you did, lad; I guess yer made o'stronger stuff than I give you credit for." Smiling, she straightened the boy's collarless shirt. "Now, listen 'ere, Satine's thinkin' you don't know nothin' about 'er bein' sick, so be ready to act surprised if she says somethin'." Nini stopped fussing at him and looked him in the eye. "'Course I seen your little performance in front of the Duke during rehearsal yesterday; that's why you're a writer and not an actor, ain't it?"

"And how is it that you claim to know me so well?"

"If this profession don't give you a few insights into human nature, nothin' will."

"So what should I say to her, Nini?"

"You ain't tellin' 'er what went on last night, that's for god's-honest sure." She attempted to brush the soft bangs away from his face, being only somewhat more successful than he had been at the same task.

"And I thought you were a champion of the truth." he snapped.

The dancer's pale blue eyes sparked with anger, but she swallowed a sharp retort. Any other time she would have told him what's what; but given everything he'd just been through, this time she'd let it pass. "Satine won't say anythin' about dy-about bein' sick n'all, not at first. She'll smile at you and dance 'round it long as she can. She can't 'elp it none - it's just her way. But it'll come outta her in its own time."

"You didn't say anything to her about – about w-where I w-was, did you?"

"You think I'm daft? Course not." Nini gave up on any further attempts to improve his general appearance as they wandered in the direction of Satine's dressing room. "I told her you was out bein' distracted by that useless lot o' bohemian friends o' yours. So tell her that - or if you can't lie just don't say nothin' a'tall. Just let 'er do the talkin' and think what she will. She's a good'n for that."

"I don't have much experience telling lies, Nini," The poet admitted. "But I suppose I'm going to have to learn."

"You managed in front o' the Duke longer than I would o' expected, but only 'cause he's denser than treacle 'imself. Otherwise you'd a been caught out long ago. You been playin' a dangerous game, lad."

"God, I never understood before – " He looked down at the hands he kept twisting together and whispered. "I never really understood anything, _**before**_."

"You done the right thing, Shakespeare, you knows ya did. Saved the show, saved the lot o' us from bein' thrown out on the street, and you saved her."

"But she's still… s-sick. I didn't change that."

"You bought 'er some time. And you kept yer Diamond out of the hands of that wretched Duke." Nini glanced at the door that bore the star's name in curling script. "Get along now, 'afore we both wake her up."

"I just wish…" His voice trailed off but his eyes remained glued to the door of Satine's dressing room like a lost and starving pup.

"You can't go in there; she's gotta rest. Otherwise it was all for nothin' – "

"How do I know it wasn't?" He nearly laughed, bitterly.

Nini reached up, clamped one hand onto his shoulder, and lifted his chin with the other, forcing him to look into her pale blue eyes. "When you see her performin' tonight, you'll remember why you done it all." She dropped her hands and took a step back, her face suddenly taking on a steely hardness. "Go on home, Penniless - get some rest 'afore rehearsal starts."

She turned on her heel, having resolved silently to find a private corner of her own to curl up in – lord, how she needed a cigarette, and a bloody sleep. Would she ever be able to? Oh she'd sleep again all right, but would it be without their faces before her eyes? Would there be a night without the damaged boy's eyes before hers? Or the face of the Diamond – shattered by the knowledge of the end of all her dreams – would that ever leave her? Right at the moment it didn't seem bloody likely, not now and maybe not ever.


	13. Chapter 13

**Hope or Something Like It**

He tried to take Nini's advice. Oh, how he did try. Christian laid awake in his garret, staring at the still-ragged hole in his ceiling. Occasionally his eyes would lower and he'd descend into an uneasy sleep where he found himself forced to stare at images, listen to sounds and fragments of speech from the preceding hours. Caught in an endless loop of torturous scenes: _she's dying…_Nini's eyes, harsh with judgment one moment, averted with guilt in another…_oh my beautiful boy_…the Duke, naked; the dancers, nearly so...so much flesh pressed against him…red, yellow, blue…sweat, sour perfume, stale wine_…she's dying…_he would awaken with jerk and shudder wondering if all his nights in the future would be like this. If only there were a switch he could throw and turn off his brain the way the stage hands could shove the brass levers down and plunge the theatre into darkness.

After perhaps an hour or so of wasted effort he climbed off the narrow bed, shrugged back into his blue coat - any effort at sleep tonight was clearly useless – and wandered into the streets, not certain where he ought to go but not surprised when his legs led him back to the Moulin, although perhaps a pub might have been the more advisable destination. But he didn't want to submit himself to the careless glances of strangers, whether they were aware enough to notice him or not. No moonlight was out tonight to light the way; the clouds hung heavy and low, promising a grey day on the morrow. He turned his collar up against the cold as he crossed the courtyard, where leaves and cigarette butts skittered in the wind, and kept his head tucked low as he passed the Tower, careful not to look up at it. He half expected, half feared that he would see the Duke in the upper window, gazing down at him with a malicious self-satisfied grin - even though common sense told him that the Duke was far more likely to be in bed, undisturbed by guilty dreams.

Christian entered through the back door, avoiding the girls dressing room. He'd no more need of cosseting this morning. There was a stillness to the place this time of day that was unsettling. The loud drunken voices and half-mad laughter that echoed through the halls from noon to well past midnight were now silent. He wound his way up a stairwell to one particular corridor without conscious thought. Beyond the corner at the end of the hallway was of course Satine's dressing room. He didn't even need to see it to be able to visualize the brass plaque on the door, her name inscribed upon it in a curling font. How many times had he knocked upon that same door in a painstaking show of formality for the benefit of any potential witnesses while his heart pounded in joyful anticipation?

"_M'lle Satine? Are you available? I was wondering if you might have a moment to discuss the scr – "_

_The door swung open and he was rewarded with the sight of his beloved on the other side, elegantly dressed, proud and haughty as a queen. "Not another silly script revision!" Her blue eyes blazed with convincing indignation as she snatched the offending document from his hand. "M'sieur James, what is so important that it cannot wait until tomorrow's rehearsal?"_

"_Forgive me, M'lle," he bowed as if he were nothing more than a humble servant, "but I have made some important changes to 'The Sitar Player visits the harem under false pretences and makes his declaration of love to the Courtesan', scene. If you have a moment I thought I might go over the new dialogue with you?"_

_Her hauteur melted ever so slightly at the edges as she arched her right brow consideringly. "Well, that is certainly the most important scene in the first act. The problem however is that there is already far too much dialogue already. Audiences are like children, M'sieur; too much talk makes them restless. They want treats - action and colorful visuals. But of course," She shrugged nonchalantly, "I'm no playwright, so I'm hardly qualified to tell you how to go about your business."_

"_M'lle Satine, you are far too modest!" He leaned forward in the doorway, barely able to contain his rising excitement. "What would you suggest to improve the scene?"_

"_Why, it's quite simple, M'sieur James – less talk, and more action."_

"_Action?" He inched closer still, drunk on her perfume and perilously close to foregoing this blasted pretence – to hell with the Duke, to hell with Zidler and the Moulin Rouge! He wanted to take her in his arms before all of them and shout 'She is glorious – she is splendid – and she loves __**me**__!' Instead, he drew on all his resources to keep the mask of indifference in place. "Do you mean more…kisses? Would that render the scene more satisfying?"_

"_Perhaps," She purred lightly, drawing the word out slowly and prolonging his torture another moment before stepping back into the dressing room. "Why don't you come inside M'sieur so we can more comfortably discuss the matter?"_

"_That would give me the greatest pleasure M'lle – I am all ears."_

_She finally stifled a giggle as she shut the door behind him. "Ears are the least of it, M'sieur…"_

He shuddered, not from any external draft, but from the shame that beat down the bulwark he'd hastily erected against it. He wanted to race down the hall, throw open Satine's door and fall to knees to confess what he'd done and beg her forgiveness. He wanted to climb the Tower steps and beat the Duke within an inch of his life, and he wanted to curl up in a ball right there in the hallway – tighter and tighter until he collapsed in on himself and disappeared.

Closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath, Christian weathered the storm of his emotions. He couldn't go to Satine and confess now; the shock would likely kill her. Bobbing along in the tides of his pain and anger, he searched within himself, grasping for something that would keep him afloat and not drown in this ocean of self-recrimination. He found it, oddly enough, not in thoughts of Satine, but in the memory of the hour spent in the care of the Moulin's other girls. Their gentle teasing and the expressions of admiration in their eyes, and most of all, their complete and unquestioning acceptance were a most unexpected balm to his wounded soul.

"I did save the show." The poet whispered, and stood a little straighter, firminf his resolve as he rounded the corner. _Just to check on her for a moment, that's all_ – he would just crack open the door and see for himself that Satine was sleeping peacefully. Surely he'd earned that right at least.

It wasn't the actual sight of Satine's door, or her nameplate upon it, that stopped him in his tracks. Rather, it was a familiar smoky-pungent odor that in former times – just a day ago! – he actually would have found rather pleasant. But now it signaled danger – and evoked rage. _What the bloody –_

Sure enough, Warner was standing outside Satine's door, leaning his massive bulk against the wall as he puffed on his cigar and carelessly flicked ashes onto the patterned rug beneath his feet.

Christian's resolve to check on Satine faltered when he realized that if Warner was here, the Duke could not be far away – most likely inside Satine's room. _Damn him! What the hell is he doing in there! He promised to let her sleep!_

He growled involuntarily, clenching his fists at the same time as his most feral impulses came to the fore. Warner started at the sound and lifted his gaze, locking eyes with Christian, and then smirking in amusement. A tremor of confusion – _I want to kill him…I want to run – God he knows what I did! - _kept Chris frozen in his spot, until Warner stubbed his cigar out against the dressing room door, just above the plaque, scattering ash across Satine's name like the black powder residue from a gunshot.

"You bastard!" Christian hissed and coiled up his fists as rage overpowered his fear.

Warner set himself into battle stance, cocking his own ham-sized fists like a professional fighter in the ring, before he smirked nastily and gestured to the boy to come closer. "Come here, you irritating little pansy-ass poet – show me what you're really made of."

"By God I'll give you a beating to remember – and heartily enjoy it!" Christian snarled.

Before Christian took more than a few steps, Satine's door swung open and a low, stern, German-tinged male voice interrupted them. "Warner, I told you not to smoke near my patien – what's going on here?"

Christian and Warner alike froze in their tracks as a tall, flaxen-haired stranger, dressed in an expensive but somber suit and carrying a highly polished leather bag, emerged from the dressing room. He regarded the erstwhile warriors with such astonishment that a monocle dropped loose from his right eye and swung on the black cord that attached it to his breast pocket. Warner dropped his arms hastily and bowed at the waist to the man.

"I was merely trying to prevent this man from intruding on you and M'lle Satine," Warner explained with the sincerity of a seasoned actor.

The stranger looked down his long, aqualine nose at Christian – not a difficulty, since he was half a head taller than the poet. "Who are you sir, and what is your business here?"

"I was about to ask you the very same!" Christian's anger, only somewhat muted, transferred itself immediately from Warner to this stranger. "Who do you think you are, disturbing M'lle Satine when she needs her rest?" Remembering his purpose and giving the other man a look of deep suspicion, Christian strode to the dressing room doorway but the stranger quickly blocked Christian's way with his arm. The poet craned his neck to peer over at the bed.

In it lay Satine, propped up on a veritable mountain of pillows with her hands folded across her stomach. She was deeply asleep, and her chest rose and fell in long, regular intervals.

Sighing with relief and backing hastily away from the other man – who had not moved an inch – Christian relaxed a part of himself he didn't know he'd been clenching. She was fine (_for now_, an evil voice whispered) and this stranger had not disturbed her. That thought brought him back to his surroundings and he raised one brow and addressed the other man.

"Who are you sir?"

The man set down his bag and folded his arms, looking down his nose at Christian. "I believe it is I who should be asking you that question."

Christian stood as straight as possible and mirrored the stranger's posture, although the other man still loomed above him. "I am the writer and director of the play, and I have every right to be concerned for Mademoiselle Satine's condition."

"Ah, so you are aware then of her illness."

"Of course I am! But who are you and why is it any of _your _concern?" Christian demanded.

The man smiled condescendingly, "I am Dr. Jonas Peltenberg, the Duke of Monroth's personal physician. His Grace requested that I examine M'lle Satine this morning."

Blinking owlishly, Christian relaxed his posture. "Oh, indeed?" The myriad possibilities and implications of this new development momentarily stymied the poet. "So soon? I just left him – that is - "

"I beg your pardon?"

"What I mean to say is…um…it's an odd hour, isn't it?"

"I received a telephone summons from His Grace a little over an hour ago, and came straightaway per his request. I was given to understand this was an emergency situation, and indeed M'lle Satine is an extraordinarily ill woman for one who is expected to perform in a play this evening. If you are indeed 'the writer and director' of this production, I am astonished you were not aware of that, and precautions were not taken much sooner."

"Well then…y-you just examined her?"

"Yes," The doctor answered, without volunteering any further information. He bent and retrieved his bag from the floor. "Now if you will excuse me, I must report my findings to the Duke. Please do not disturb M'lle Satine. I have given her a sedative as it is imperative that she rest. Good day, sir." Peltenberg inclined his head and started past Christian.

"Wait," Christian reached out and stopped the doctor with a hand on his arm. The taller man drew his lips back and narrowed his eyes at the too-familiar contact. Seeing his reaction, Christian dropped his hand, and grimaced apologetically. "Pardon me, Doctor. It was my understanding that Satine's condition was extremely grave. How did you find her?" He modulated his voice down to the range of genteel politeness in hopes the Doctor would overlook his rudeness the moment before and tell him what he'd found.

"I can draw no conclusions from this necessarily brief examination. Today I am simply treating her symptoms so that she will be able to perform this evening – if that is your concern, sir?"

Christian nodded, seeing that he would get no more information from the man. He would have liked to grab the doctor by his lapels and shake every bit of information out of him regarding Satine. However, he knew there was nothing more to find and looking for it would only betray his true concern. Yes, 'everyone knew' what Satine was to him, and yes it was irrational, but the habit of secrecy was too ingrained to let go of just yet. "Thank you Doctor; I appreciate sharing what you have with me." He held out his hand in a belated gesture of politeness.

Peltenberg clasped his hand in return. "Certainly sir, but I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Mr. --?"

"Oh! I do apologize - Christian James. I should have introduced myself at once. I-I appreciate the fact that in so brief an examination you cannot diagnose M'lle Satine. However, I've worked very closely with her over these last several months and she has become a very dear friend…" He cleared his throat and finally allowed the desperation he felt to show on his face. "Please sir, is there any hope for her at all?"

Peltenburg favored Christian with a deeply considering look and apparently decided to take pity on him. "Mll'e Satine's condition is very grave indeed. Aside from whatever illness is affecting her at the moment she appears to be dehydrated, malnourished and exhausted. My immediate task is not to make a definitive diagnosis, but to ensure that she gets the rest she needs and treat the obvious signs and symptoms to help her get through tonight's production. That is all I can say at the moment. Good day, sir."

Without an additional word or a single flourish the Doctor turned on his heel to depart, but as he replaced his hat he suddenly sniffed at the air, and turned on Warner. "I asked you not to smoke in the vicinity of my patient's room – I hope it will not be necessary for me to speak to His Grace regarding this?"

Warner, who had been grinning at Christian's obvious discomfiture, was suddenly humbled, or at least took on the appearance of being so, as he bent his head obsequiously. "Of course not, Doctor."

"Very well then, be so kind as to lead me out of this rabbit warren so that I may report my preliminary findings to the Duke."

Christian waited just long enough for the Doctor and his guide dog to disappear around the corner before slipping into Satine's room and kneeling down beside her bed. The heavy fringed canopy loomed oppressively overhead, as though Satine were already down in the bowels of some ancient crypt. He ignored the musings of overactive imagination and turned his attention to his ladylove, noticing the things he'd missed earlier, the details he'd ignored or told himself didn't exist so many times in the summer.

Her chest rose and fell in a the slow regular pattern he'd observed a moment ago. But even in the dim yellow light of the single oil lamp Christian could see that she was not merely pale, but actually grey. Without the careful makeup she normally wore at all times he could see the hollows in her cheeks and the dark circles under her eyes. Strands of hair clung to her dampened face and neck as he gently pressed his lips to her forehead. Warm – she was far too warm, almost hot. Did this new physician not give her something to prevent a fever? How could the Doctor not have noticed that?

How could he _himself _ have been so blind to how sick she was?

"I did it, s-sweetheart," He whispered. "I – I s-saved the s-show, God help me. And – maybe – I bought you a little time as well. I hope you'll understand, love. I – I hope you'll forgive me." He smoothed the sheets around her meticulously, and remembering some of the folk medicine his aunt had practiced on him as a boy, folded the heavy velvet coverlet from the foot of the bed over her feet and added a woolen shawl that hung over one of the chairs. There was no handy brick or warming pan about so he contented himself with the fact that thick coverings would keep her feet warm and draw the heat away from her head. She did not stir the entire time, and except for the inhalations and exhalations of breath might as easily have been laid out in her coffin as on her mattress.

"Sleep well, my beauty. My love." He kissed her forehead once more, turned out the lamp, and allowed himself a last look at her before letting himself out, closing the door as quietly as possible. And as he walked away, it was with but two thoughts in his brain, beating against one another in a syncopated rhythm:

_The show must go on…_

_She must never find out…_

…_the show __**will **__go on…_

…_she must __**never **__find out._

8


	14. Chapter 14

**Renegotiations**

"I've had enough of your shenanigans, Harold Zidler!"

"My dearest Duke, there must be some misunderstanding."

"What sort of fool do you take me for, Zidler?" The Duke seated himself in front of the massive mahogany desk that dominated Zidler's overdecorated office. Having sent Warner to escort Dr. Peltenberg to Satine's room, the nobleman had sought out Zidler himself, and found him already preparing for the dress rehearsal. That the impresario had made only the feeblest of protests when the Duke tersely demanded a "private meeting", seemed proof enough of the showman's complicity. "You knew damn well the girl was consumptive and yet – "

"Satine…is…ill? Why m-my dearest Duke," Zidler stammered as he fiddled with the belt of his dressing gown, hastily thrown over theatrical tights and a plain white shift, "w-wherever did you hear such nonsense? She's as healthy as – as the proverbial horse."

"To the contrary, she's sick as a dog, from what I understand."

"Perhaps – perhaps she has been a bit under the weather lately, but I assure you it won't affect her performance. She's a professional!" Harold weak attempt at a smile was contradicted by the perspiration that began to dot his forehead. "After all, she attends rehearsals every day, six days a week – what better proof of health can there be than that?"

"The boy informed me she is consumptive."

"Christian? My dear Duke, you must understand what overwrought imaginations these writers have, particularly when –"

"When they are carrying on an affair with the leading lady?" The Duke watched the last trace of a false smile fade from the showman's face as his skin turned pasty white. If he'd needed any further evidence that Zidler was aware of the boy's infatuation, the man's complexion provided it. "And don't even attempt to deny it Zidler. Our writer's devotion to that girl is almost touching, really. But it doesn't alter certain facts. You tried to pawn off a diseased little viper on me, and I will have no more of it. I've arranged for an emergency examination of the girl this morning by my personal physician, Dr. Jonas Peltenberg. In fact I believe he is with her in her dressing room as we speak."

"Your Grace, I protest that Satine is perfectly healthy. " Zidler rose from his seat behind the desk in a feeble bid to reassert his lost authority. "And forgive me for saying so, but you might have consulted with me first before calling in a doctor to examine my star performer –"

"MY star, Zidler, or have you forgotten?" The Duke slapped his hat and gloves onto the desk as he shot out of his chair. "Everything you own, down to the last overdecorated…" the Duke glanced over his shoulder at an ebony statue of a half-naked Egyptian goddess that towered above them both, "…fan…belongs to me! I inform you now that Mademoiselle Satine is being examined only as a courtesy which I in no way owe you and you do not deserve. Instead of complaining you should be on your knees thanking me that I haven't already ruined you a thousand times over!"

"I-I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Do I need to spell it out to you in capital letters? You promised the girl to me in return for my investment in your theater and your ridiculous little show without bothering to inform me that she is consumptive. " Having completely gained the upper hand – and regained control of his temper - the Duke spoke slowly and clearly, his eye's never wavering from Zidler's, only raising his voice slightly as needed for emphatic effect. "If I ever suspect you are trying to fool me once more, all I need do is call in the deeds to the Moulin Rouge and you'll never own so much as a dung-cart ever again! Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

The portly man suddenly seemed very small indeed as he lowered himself into his chair. "As clear as crystal, my dear Duke."

"Excellent. I've instructed Dr. Peltenberg to do whatever is necessary to get the girl through the show tonight; tomorrow he is to examine her more thoroughly and report his findings to me."

"But, Your Grace, what of the condition of our contract, that Satine –"

"Comes to me when the curtain closes? That is no longer your concern, Zidler. We shall continue on with the contract as it is for the time being, save that I absolve you from the need to provide me with as companion." He smoothed down the front of his coat. "As you are obviously untrustworthy where such matters are concerned, I have made my own arrangements."

"With all due respect, Your Grace, any arrangement you wish to make with any of my girls needs to come through me, although I will most gladly introduce you to –"

"If I wish to bed every harlot in the place that is entirely my affair! You still do not comprehend, Zidler," the Duke leaned over the desk dramatically, "that I own the Moulin Rouge. You are beholden to me, not the other way around. But you needn't worry yourself on that account; if your precious star courtesan is dying of consumption I shudder to think what foulness the rest of those overpriced and overpainted vixens carry. Now, I am going back to my townhouse to meet with Dr. Peltenberg and discuss the girl's condition. Hopefully she is not so far gone that she cannot perform tonight. It would be a shame to cancel the show and see all that money go to waste, would it not? "

Zidler nodded and swallowed hard. "A tragedy, Your Grace," he agreed meekly. "Only, if I might be allowed a few words with your physician to inqui - ?"

"No, you may not." The Duke swept his hat and gloves off the desk, carelessly allowing a ceramic red windmill to topple over, "I will be returning in a few hours to supervise the rehearsal; I trust you will behave yourself until then. Keep in mind that I will have Warner stationed here in the meantime, as well as backstage tonight, to ensure that there are no further shenanigans. Now, if you'll excuse me," he said with feigned politeness, "I have to meet with the Doctor, and you have a dress rehearsal to prepare for. Adieu."

The Duke set his hat smartly on his head, whirled dramatically out the door, and very nearly tripped himself over that dwarf of a painter who emerged from the hallway's shadows.

"Who in the – oh, _you_," the Duke hissed. "Out of my way at once!"

"Oh sorry, so sorry," Toulouse lisped, hastily screwing the curved top back onto the shaft of his cane, perhaps to hide the flask the Duke knew he kept hidden there. In any case, the Duke was certain he saw a dribble of pale amber liquid at the corner of the man's mouth, although the painter wiped it away with his sleeve. "I was just looking for Christian – have you seen him?"

This time the Duke could not surpress the grin that curled across his lips. "Seen him? Why yes, as a matter of fact, I _have_." And he swept past Toulouse without another word, entirely pleased with his own cleverness.

"Merdi," Toulouse whispered, watching the Duke disappear around the corner. He had been searching for Christian – or Satine – for someone, anyone who could offer news of last's night's events. He had not seen nor heard the boy come home, and when he peeked into the garret this morning – Christian never locked his door, for what was there to steal? The Underwood of course, but that required more actual effort than the pickpockets in Montmartre could be bothered with – he saw that the boy's bed appeared to have been unslept in, for everything was in the same condition as it had been the night before, down to the last crease in the tucked-in blanket. And so he had risen early, driven out of bed by worry and by the ever-present pain that wracked his legs, and come to the Moulin.

The painter had in mind to go to Satine's dressing room; surely she had returned from her assignation with the Duke, and perhaps the poet was there as well, offering her whatever comfort he could. Perhaps the boy had been waiting there for her the entire night, why had he not thought of that before? It cheered him a little to think of the two of them together, and he urged his shattered legs forward when the Duke's voice, shrill and unpleasant, stopped him in front of Harold's office:

"_- you knew the girl was consumptive –"_

Toulouse shivered as he pressed himself into the hallway's shadows to listen. That couldn't be – not his queen, the goddess of Montmartre! And yet, it all made sudden, terrible sense. Of course it had not escaped the painter's eyes, accustomed as he was to physical impairment, that Satine seemed more tired as of late; that she wearily lowered herself into a chair during breaks from rehearsals with greater frequency, and lingered in her seat longer as the days wore on, could not be denied. Toulouse had seen the perspiration that she discretely dabbed from her brow even as autumn approached and the air took on a decided chill. Nor had he failed to notice, when he invited the lovers to his studio for supper, that Satine often slumped into her favorite armchair and remained there the rest of the evening, silent and watchful, or with eyes half-closed. Meanwhile her lover and her friend engaged in animated conversations about important matters – art, love, and the news of the day - that she only rarely contributed to anymore, dismissing any concerns that either one expressed with excuses of simply being tired, and to pay her no mind.

How could he not have seen it? The painter berated himself as he stood listening while the war of words in Harold's office raged on. He had let himself believe that she was merely sick, or under the weather but really it was nothing to fuss about when all that time – M'lle Satine had been dying! That he himself would not be long in this world, Toulouse had accepted as fact long ago – but that someone as bright, beautiful and talented as Satine should outrace him to the grave was inconceivable. He had failed to see it, he realized, for the same reason everyone else had failed, had failed her – because no one wanted to. As much as he had prided himself as seeing with an artist's eye to the truth of his subject's very souls, he understood right then that he was no different than anyone else in that damned and doomed little village. Because they all saw in her what they wanted to see, not the woman who actually stood before them.

And yet – it was horrible to contemplate, but if Satine were not able to perform and the show was cancelled? "Damned and doomed" would only be the beginning of it, and of the fate of everyone connected to the Moulin Rouge.

" – _as you are obviously untrustworthy I have made my own arrangements."_

Arrangements? Whatever could the Duke mean? What girl in Montmartre could conceivably replace Satine in the nobleman's affections – or his bed? Perhaps Toulouse was prejudiced, for certainly he was fond of many of the girls, and had bedded several himself, but Satine stood above them all, untouchable and splendid and utterly unmatched in the painter's mind. Who could look upon Satine and then, willy-nilly, turn their desire to another ?

"How long have you been standing there?" Toulouse faced Harold towering over him in the doorway, his dressing robe falling loose over his underthings and his face a far brighter shade of scarlet than the Moulin Rouge itself. "Have you been eavesdropping again, you wicked little troll?"

"I beg your pardon? I have only just arrived – "

"Oh don't waste my time with your nonsense, I have work to do!" He was about to slam his door in the painter's face, but Toulouse stopped it with the tip of his cane.

"Have you seen Christian, perchance?"

"No I haven't and I hope never to see him again. I wish to God and the Devil that you had never brought him here, Toulouse! Why did you have to drive Audrey away and replace her with that confounded boy? Until then everything was going so well – everything would be proceding right on target now if he hadn't filled Satine's mind with all that nonsense about love. Not that you failed to encourage either one of them! I hold you entirely responsible for this mess! Now get out of my sight before I have you thrown out!"

This time Toulouse drew his cane away just in time to save it from being splintered to pieces, as the door slammed with a terrible thunder that threatened to further damage the painter's already fragile bones.

"Merdi!" Toulouse repeated after the initial shock had passed. He had to find Christian – wherever had the boy gone to? Did he know Satine was dying? The artist had no difficulty whatsoever imagining his tender young protégé swept away in mourning.

Of course Toulouse could not have guessed, when he first met Christian, that the poet was destined to be Satine's lover, but when news of it reached his ears from the pair themselves, dewy-eyed and giggling like children, it came as no surprise to him. In fact it seemed strangely inevitable. And if the painter could never hope to love Satine himself, he could at least congratulate himself that he had brought the two of them together, and live vicarously through their love.

Oh, but to loose that love, to watch it perish far too soon – what a wretched, pitiless world!


	15. Chapter 15

**Prelude to Opening Night**

As accustomed as Satine was to male visitors to her boudoir and her dressing room (Harold had long allowed special guests to observe her preparations before show time – for an additional fee, of course), it was nonetheless rather unsettling to be in the presence of a man who didn't compliment or praise her, didn't laugh, sigh or groan with anticipation, or satiated pleasure. He didn't spill out his life story nor did he unfasten his trousers. This man observed her with an unflinching gaze, nodding or frowning occasionally but otherwise displaying no emotion.

Then he pulled a syringe from his polished leather bag.

"Are you certain this will help me?" Satine eyed the syringe warily as the physician fitted a vial of opaque white liquid in the center of it; the long needle glinted in the light from the window.

"Oui, M'lle." Dr. Peltenberg's Germanic accent gave his French pronunciations a precise, almost metallic quality, as if he were clipping each word at it's ends with one of his own surgical instruments. "Cocaine is a very efficacious bronchodilator, with powerful anesthetic properties."

"Oh, of course."

If Satine was too proud to query the doctor further, Marie wasn't. "Could you try that again for us, Doc – in plain language?"

"It will open the bronchial tubes – the breathing passages inside the lungs - and dull any sensations of pain. In addition, most patients have reported feelings of euphoria and increased stamina and vigor after taking it, so it will help you get through tonight's show in any number of ways."

"Well, that sounds all right," Marie nodded, although the quicksilver glances she and Satine exchanged betrayed a shared uncertainty.

Satine cast another glance at the needle the doctor held aloft. Nasty looking thing, it was, and yet she was unable to tear her eyes away from it. Not that she was exactly a stranger to them. Many a time she'd watched other dancers take tarnished syringes in hand after a show or during breaks, plunge dull needles forcibly into the soft pink meat of their thighs, shiver with the pain and pleasure brought about by the morphine, and then pass the syringe around the room. Morphine, opium, alcohol – Satine had seen it all, and tried a good many at least once, but for the most part she scorned intoxicants in general and the lack of control they tended to induce.

And it was one thing when Harold's physician, old Doctor Halevy, attended one of Satine's fainting spells and she was already semi-conscious when he injected her; it was quite another to be wide awake and staring at the hypodermic - and where was Doc Halevy, anyway? Why wasn't he here instead of this unsmiling stranger?

"I'll do anything to get through the show tonight – but, surely I could drink the medicine instead?"

The Doctor shook his head. "This is the quickest method of delivery; it will enter the bloodstream directly and be circulated throughout the body in a matter of minutes. I am given to understand that time is of the essence."

"Yes, thank you for taking that into consideration, Doctor," Satine remarked with a tight smile. "Of course I trust your professional expertise – if you think this is the proper course…"

"At the moment this medicine is your best ally, and the only solution as you insist on preceding with this performance. Which, as I have already stated, I cannot recommend in your compromised condition."

"Oh don't start that again, please." Satine sighed. Doctor Halevy would never have argued with her or scolded her about performing. He simply administered some medicine, and gave one of his sad, useless sighs, but he did whatever needed to be done to get his patient on their feet again. He understood that a girl had a job to do. "Doctor, the show must go on, and that's simply all there is to it."

She pushed back the sleeve of her kimono and thrust out her thin white arm with a good deal more bravery than she actually felt, even favoring the Doctor with one of her famous "Diamond" smiles. Unlike any other man who'd ever visited her boudoir, however, he did not smile in return or even appear to be awed by the sight; he simply went about his task briskly and efficiently, fastening a white strap above her elbow and swabbing her skin with a strong-smelling yellowish liquid before plunging the needle in.

She kept that smile fixed and frozen on her face the entire time, although even she could not help but flinch ever-so-slightly as the wicked needle poked its way under her skin. Nasty, horrid thing, she seethed silently. A vague memory floated into her mind just then, of a dark-haired woman in a shabby flat sticking a similar needle into her thigh – had it been another dancer she'd seen, years ago? Some poor morphine addict, no doubt, just another one of a countless number who had made their way to the Moulin. Satine swept the memory, if that's what it was, aside with a little shake of her head.

"Almost done, M'lle."

"It's not so bad, really, not bad at all," she murmured, and tried not to wince a second time as the Doctor slid the needle out.

888888888888888888

Dress rehearsal was in full swing by the time Satine made her way to the backstage area. She hovered amongst the curtains for a few minutes, hesitating. Entrances had to be carefully timed, after all. But for once in her life, the woman who had spent much of her life's energies drawing attention to herself suddenly wished that she might become invisible, so as to sneak onstage and blend in without comment or notice. Which was impossible in any case, even without –

"Poppet! There you are!" The forced jollity of Harold's booming voice was more distasteful than ever to Satine's ears. "How are you feeling? You look very well!"

"I'm fine Harold; splendid, in fact." She strode out from the wings and let him escort her to center stage, her head held proudly aloft. All right, so invisibility wasn't an option; she might as well play along. "It was ever so kind of you to allow me to rest. I hope I haven't created any inconvenience."

"We just finished running through all the scenes that you're not in - for the second time. I'd say we have them polished to a fare-thee-well; wouldn't you agree, Christian?"

"Indeed. All that we require now is our leading lady." The poet came forward from his chair at the edge of the stage to meet her, then took her hand and planted a kiss on the back of it that lingered a little longer than dictated by propriety. She was about to snatch her hand away from him (_Not here, Christian, not in front of everyone!_) when it occurred to her that there was no point to it. Her eyes roamed across the faces of the gathered cast and crew and the glances she received in turn told her at once that everyone knew – about their affair, about her illness - and everything had changed, even if nothing was said as such. Satine was accustomed to being regarded with sidelong glances that ranged from awe and admiration to envy and outright contempt, but never had anyone looked at her with - was this pity that she saw in people's faces? If indeed they looked at her at all, for many averted their eyes from her unless absolutely necessary. She didn't know which she found more distasteful.

What was particularly loathsome was the way Christian would not look her in the eye when he raised his head from the kiss. Even when she did catch his gaze the usual warmth and awareness were missing. Instead his expression was wary and a bit distracted; his warm blue-green eyes held a coolness and were faded to a bland grey that she had never seen there before.

Well of course he knew that she was dying – Nini wouldn't have kept such a tasty morsel of gossip to herself – and furthermore he had to realize that she'd carelessly, if inadvertently, put his life at risk. No doubt he was angry with her but too kind-hearted to display it, and was trying his best to suppress his feelings for her sake – dear, sweet boy! For the first time since childhood she felt herself burn with…well, "shame" was the only word she could put to it.

"I'm sorry, Christian," she whispered. He gave no reply or sign he'd heard. Instead he directed his gaze back to the assembled company behind them as he released her hand.

"Let's take it from the top, shall we?" Christian said. "You were all looking wonderful in that last run-through, very much improved. Just keep in time and step with one another and you'll achieve absolute perfection tonight. I have great faith in every one of you."

"Very kind of you, M'sieur James, very kind," Tattoo replied, and the other girls nodded their agreement with the sentiment.

He approached them with his arms spread open, as if to take all of them into a single embrace, although stopping just a few steps short of actually doing so. The normally jaded dancers smiled or giggled in receipt of his praise, and that was almost the worst of it. Christian had always been polite but shy with the other girls, having eyes for only for Satine. Suddenly he was relaxed in his manner towards them and they were friendly, smiling and flirting with him like old chums rather than trying to make him blush with embarrassment. No doubt they were calculating how long it would take Satine to die, and how much time they could allow to let pass before getting their hooks into the boy!

And as for the Duke, he strode down the central aisle of the auditorium wearing a supremely self-satisfied expression, and made a great show of verbal courtesies to his leading lady – while pointedly keeping his distance from her.

"Are you feeling well-rested, M'lle?"

"Yes, thank you, Your Grace." Satine inclined her head towards him.

"I hope you find Dr. Peltenberg's care agreeable?" he asked, loudly enough for all to hear.

She took pains to conceal the embarrassment that shot through her. "Yes, Your Grace. Forgive me, I'm afraid I've not had the opportunity to give you proper thanks. It was very kind of you to send your physician to look after me."

"Yes, it was, wasn't it?" The tight-lipped smile that spread across his mien could have curdled milk. Possessiveness suffused his tone, his features, and curled its cold fingers around the hapless girl: _You belong to me, to do with as I please, just like every miserable scrap of this theater. Your life is in my hands – be good enough not to forget it._

He voiced none of this, however, but merely smoothed down the tips of his mustache with his gloved fingers as his eyes shuttled back and forth between Satine and Christian. "I'm sure I'll come up with an appropriate way for you to repay me."

"No doubt about that," someone, probably Travesty, snickered in the background, only to be promptly hushed.

"Shut yer trap." The Cockney accent was unmistakable. Nini, of all people, defending Satine? Whatever was this world coming to?

The Duke ignored the titters onstage and turned to the writer. "Mister James, you may procede with the rehearsal."

"I beg your pardon, my dear Duke," Harold said. "But there is a small matter of the ending to be resolved."

"The ending?" The Duke asked in feigned innocence, as if he was completely unaware of any controversy on the matter. No wonder he took such an interest in the theater, Satine mused; perhaps he did indeed harbor a secret ambition to act. "Oh, yes, the ending. You may keep your fairy tale ending, Zidler."

"My ending," Christian breathed, coming back to center stage.

"Pardon, _Master_ James?"

Christian colored violently, turning nearly as red as the velvet curtains surrounding the stage. "Nothing, Your Grace."

"Procede then."

8888888888888888

"Twenty minutes to curtain, Satine!" the stage manager called through the door.

"Thank you, Bernard!" It was Marie who answered from within the dressing room, not Satine herself. Marie who bustled and fussed over Satine in her usual way, lacing costumes and arranging coiffures. Marie who shouted orders and advice to anyone who knocked, who had a hundred other girls clamoring for her attention, but who nonetheless shut the door to the leading lady's dressing room firmly and focused her energies preparing her protégé for opening night with all the intensity of someone who has failed the person they most love and yet hopes somehow that painting a face and fixing a costume will make amends satisfactorily.

Satine didn't glance at the mirror as Marie worked; if there was anything the girl still trusted it was her mentor's skill with make-up. She kept her eyes closed, running over her dialogue in her head while the pins scraped her scalp and the soft, fat, squirrels-hair brushes and powder puffs tickled her skin. Already the dancing shoes pinched her feet and the costume chafed under her arms.

"I am the Hindu Courtesan, and I choose the Mahara – ow! Marie! Careful with those hairpins!"

"Sorry lovey, almost done. Just some finishin' touches – not that 'eaddress, Elizabeth, the other one!" Marie barked at the wardrobe mistress before returning her attention to the task at hand. "Dress rehearsal went off well, wouldn't you say?"

"Toulouse forgot his line again."

"Besides that."

"I suppose." She didn't mention the subtle changes in choreography to accommodate her illness, the way the other dancers stayed a step away from her onstage unless absolutely necessary, or how during the tango Rico had held her at arm's length. She didn't want to think of any of that just now.

"You looked beautiful up there onstage – just divine."

"I look ghastly – I need more rouge – and I could barely breathe in that wedding dress."

"Never would've known it, watchin' you."

"The show must go on, after all."

"I mean it, lovey – you were perfect in rehearsal, and you'll be a sensation tonight. 'ave every one in the audience eatin' out of your hand."

"Thank you, Marie."

A knock on the door broke the momentary, awkward silence.

"We know Bernard, fifteen minutes," Marie shouted in response. "We're almost done 'ere".

"M'lle Satine?" Dr. Peltenberg called from the hallway.

"What's 'e want now?" The stage mistress grumbled and rolled her eyes at the interruption. "Come in, Doctor."

The Doctor entered, looking quite like any other gentleman dressed for an evening at the theater or any one of Satine's regular suitors, except that instead of roses he carried his black medical kit. He cast his eyes around the room – at the women fussing over Satine, at the jewels and costumes laid out on the bed, and the pots of makeup scattered over the dressing table – and actually seemed to hesitate in the doorway for a moment as if the excess of femininity unnerved him slightly. "Forgive me, M'lle Satine but I must examine you before you go onstage. I only require a moment, I assure you." He pulled a stethoscope from his bag. "You appeared to have had a bit of trouble catching your breath during rehearsal earlier."

"I'm – I'm all right." Satine shrugged, winding a bracelet in the form of a snake around her forearm. "The singing was a challenge, but that's always the case."

"You know I cannot recommend that you perform in that corset you were wearing in the last act, during the finale."

"I told you," Marie growled, "there ain't time to let out that costume."

"The tortures you women endure for the sake of vanity – it's entirely perverse. And it's a wonder any of your sex can breathe at all, quite frankly. If you knew the damage I have seen over the years caused by tight-lacing –"

"It isn't vanity, Doctor," Satine interrupted, "it's _art_."

"Most women are not in the theater, however."

"_Au contraire, _Doctor, the great majority of women are actresses, in one way or another. We have to be, in order to please our men, to be what they – what the world – wants us to be. There's little difference from a stage to a parlour or a boudoir. It's all theater, in the end."

The Doctor pressed the stethoscope to Satine's chest, apparently unwilling to argue the logic of her remarks. "Breathe in, deeply – now cough please. Again. One more deep breath, as deep as you can – now hold it. Good. Release it slowly. Very good."

"How is she, Doc?"

"Her airways are far less obstructed than they were this morning; the cocaine seems to have taken effect satisfactorily. Your ability to breathe is much improved, yes?"

"Why, yes - yes it is." In her concentration during rehearsal she hadn't even given a thought to her breathing. _Mon dieu_, she could breathe! How long had it been since she'd been able to do so easily and effortlessly? Satine nodded as she beamed up at him. "Your treatment is miraculous indeed!"

"It's not a miracle, I'm afraid, nor is it a cure."

"Not a cure?"

"No, but it will get the job done, and for the moment that must be enough. I have given you the minimum therapeutic amount possible, given your relative slenderness and delicacy."

"Delicacy?" Satine wrinkled her nose. "I'm sure I'm a good deal stronger than you give me credit for."

"Nonetheless, I would caution you against overexerting yourself. Try to sit or lie down backstage whenever you are not performing."

Satine suppressed the temptation to roll her eyes. "I'm in nearly every scene."

"Try nevertheless. I will be seated in the auditorium near the right of the stage. Do not hesitate to send for me if you are in the slightest distress."

"Thank, you, Doctor."

He bowed and gathered his equiptment, then slipped out the door and into the darkness of the corridor.

"There, now, lovely, I think that'll do," Marie ceased her ministrations and set her brushes on the dressing table. "Tell me what you think."

Satine turned toward the glass for the first time since preparations began and was startled despite herself. Perhaps she had not really expected to recognize herself. Certainly she'd expected something more theatrical, but even at these close quarters the appearance was decidedly one of "beauty"; the bright red lips and over-emphasized eyes, as if plumes of smoke had settled on her eyelids, ensured she would be seen as such all the way to the back of the auditorium.

"I _am_ the Hindu Courtesan," she whispered.

"What'd you say, dearie? Do you like it?" Marie asked of the girl whose face she had rendered into an icy mask and who betrayed no sign or favor or disfavor. "I can add a touch more rouge if you like."

"It's wonderful, Marie." Satine looked up at her mentor and was surprised to see tears gathering in Marie's eyes. At an earlier time - just two days before, really! - and under other circumstances, the girl surely would have thrown her arms about the older woman's neck or kissed her hand; perhaps she would have giggled or squealed in childish delight. But, mindful of not wanting to spoil the delicate painting and with the events of last night not altogether faded from mind, she merely clasped Marie's hand in her own and held it to her breast. "You are truly an artist, every bit the equal of Toulouse himself."

"Look at the canvas I've got to work with! This is your night to shine, dearie. You've always been a star, but tonight the whole world's gonna know it."

Dear, foolish, loyal Marie! Satine could forgive her, she _would_ forgive her.

"Ten minutes to curtain, M'lle Satine!"

"Thank you, Bernard." It was Satine herself who answered this time, in a voice that was clear and strong. That medicine truly was miraculous stuff! Perhaps this physician knew what he was about after all.

"Right then - off you go, girl." Marie's tone and manner changed abruptly, becoming her usual brisk and businesslike self, and if time were not pressing Satine might really have thrown her arms around her mentor. As it was the girl could only smile in response before she sailed out the door. At least there were a few small things she could still count upon with comforting predictability when all the rest of her world had been tossed sideways and upside-down.

888888888888888888

"Is my tiara on straight?"

"Ow! Better fix those two left feet before you get onstage, girl!"

"Where is the other sword? I'm missing a sword!"

"How does the line go again?"

"Hand me the rope and be quick about it, lad!"

Satine strode through the dim backstage corridors and soaked in every particle of energy, reveled in it like Toulouse with his beloved bottle. Chorus girls and stagehands rushed past her, the sounds of the orchestra warming up and the spectators settling into their seats floated into her ears. She took a deep breath, drinking in the rush of excitement. _Mon dieu_, just to be able to breathe again! In fact, all of her senses seemed heightened; her skin tingled, and everything she looked upon seemed to glow – the people, the pasteboard props, even the ropes and pulleys all wore soft halos of shimmering colors even in these dark corners.

But then again, this was no ordinary show. This was what she lived for, what she had planned her entire life towards, and it seemed to her suddenly that last night must surely have been an awful dream or perhaps a very vulgar joke, for how could she be dying when she felt so thoroughly alive?

_I am the Hindu Courtesan_…the entire play, her dialogue and everyone else's, was running through her head at incredible speeds, all compacted together, but it didn't frighten her. In fact she felt more in control than she ever had in her entire life. She was certain she could take over any character onstage if the need ever arose.

She took another deep breath, pushing aside any last lingering thoughts of doctors, medicines and sickness, of anything that did not involve the imaginary world of the Maharajah's harem,

and let the "Hindu Courtesan" fill up all the spaces inside of her.

"…ease up on yourself, Shakespeare." Satine might have strode past Nini and Christian, hidden as they were in the folds of the stage curtains, had Nini's voice not betrayed them. "You done everything you can."

Satine watched in astonishment as Nini offered her cigarette to Chris and the poet, after a moment's hesitation, shrugged mutely and accepted it. Satine had never seen Chris smoke a single cigarette in all the months she'd known him – nor had she ever seen the two of them in conversation before. Whatever _was_ this world coming to?

She might have continued to observe them unseen had the cigarette smoke not irritated her throat, and so she betrayed her own presence with a light cough.

Christian wheeled around hastily. "Oh!" He dropped the cigarette and stubbed it out underfoot like a guilty schoolboy.

Nini took a step back and set her hands on her hips while Satine lifted her chin as the two eyed one another warily. If Satine could not forget the kindness of last night, neither could she forget – nor yet forgive – the cruelty that had preceded it. One act of mercy did not override years of ingrained rivalry and mistrust.

"You're looking well, Diamond."

"Thank you, I'm feeling well – very well. And you, Nini, are you ready for the show?"

"I was born ready," she smirked, before turning on her heel and making her way to the stage, leaving the lovers alone for the first time since their quarrel last night.

Satine had never been in this position before – the few times she'd ever had lovers in her life, quarrels ended with a definite break and no backward glance.

"Well, M'sieur James," the habit of formality with him in "public" was still automatic. "You must be very excited – when this evening is over you'll be the most celebrated playwright in Paris!"

"I suppose." He shrugged noncommittally and clasped her hand, although his eyes still avoided hers, darting about nervously beneath his dark lashes like moths that could find no place to land. "How are you feeling, darling?"

She glanced down at his hand wrapped about her own, and realized that suddenly it was she who could not meet his gaze. "Does it matter, really? You already know, don't you? You know everything – everybody does."

"Letting you sleep through the morning and bringing in a new doctor was difficult to miss."

"I guess the cat truly is out of the bag, isn't it? Just as well – that whole charade was getting tiresome."

"Really, how are you feeling? You don't have to pretend with me."

"I told you I'm fine, really. The doctor's medicines are extremely efficacious, you know. If you're concerned about my ability to perform tonight, I assure you that I –"

"I'm concerned about you." He squeezed her hand more tightly.

"Please, let's not - I need to think about something else right now, besides my own problems. I need to forget, for a little while. In fact, I'm glad tonight's the opening; I can be someone else for two solid hours. That sounds very agreeable right now, doesn't it?"

"Places everyone!" Bernard hissed in a backstage whisper/shout. He popped into the wings in front of the lovers, even more red-faced than usual - "Hindu Courtesan, on in two!" – and disappeared again.

"Good luck, my love," Christian whispered, planting a light, dry wisp of a kiss on her temple.

"You're supposed to say 'break a leg', silly boy," she chuckled.

He frowned in response. "I never did care for that phrase."

"In the theater it's considered to be bad luck not to say it. Surely you know that?"

"I simply fail to understand how wishing bodily harm upon someone is supposed to draw good luck." He cocked his head as he looked at her. "Don't tell me you're superstitious."

"Of course I'm not. It's just – it's tradition, that's all. Don't be so contrary, Christian," she replied with more irritation than she'd intended to, her own anxious excitement rising as the last of the chorus girls filed past them both to take their places. "Right now, breaking a leg would be the least of my worries."

"One minute – Satine!" Bernard hissed again.

"Satine!" Marie low but sharp bark echoed from above where she stood on a set of wooden stairs leading down to the wings. "You've got to get onstage, girl!"

"I love you," Christian murmured. "Whatever else happens, remember that."

Satine opened her mouth to reply but Bernard interrupted her: "Thirty seconds! Places, everybody!" So she could only nod in acknowledgement as she strode onstage, leaving her lover behind in the wings.

"Break a leg, Diamond."

Satine turned and searched Nini's painted face for traces of sarcasm or ill-will and found none there. In the dark behind the still-closed curtain she scanned the faces of all the players surrounding her. Some were completely absorbed in their opening poses, taking props in hand, but many were eyeing her as well. Anxiety, hope, disbelief, she saw every imaginable expression in their eyes and swore she could almost read their thoughts – could almost _hear_ their thoughts. (_Is she really doing this? She's brave – she's daft – suppose she collapses or somesuch thing?_) Satine shook her head – surely that was the Doctor's medicine affecting her so? Travesty (or was that Dominatrix? It was so hard to tell when everyone was painted and costumed identically) even nodded curtly in acknowledgement or perhaps even solidarity. _We're all in this together – and they're all counting on me. _

She blew out a heavy breath from the bottom of her lungs as she stepped on her mark. As long as that stuff the Doctor had administered got her through the next two hours, she didn't care if it was arsenic.

"On in ten…nine… eight…"

The swelling crescendo of the orchestra drowned out Bernard's countdown; then the final bars of the overture faded as the red curtains parted and the stage lights came up. Despite her years of performing experience, butterflies filled Satine's stomach and beat madly while she blinked several times to adjust to the white-hot lights that hit her face. This was it, finally, the moment she had dreamed of her entire life – to be an actress, a_ real_ actress.


	16. Chapter 16

**The Stage is a World…**

"There's really not much for you to do here, Christian," Harold observed as he adjusted the "Maharajah's" oversized turban between scenes. "Why don't you find yourself a seat in the auditorium and watch the play from there?"

"Thank you Harold, but I'd rather stay here – to provide moral support."

"Suit yourself, boy."

And so Christian did just that. With the same single-minded determination that had led him to Paris, he pushing the tragedy and horror that had befallen him in the last twenty-four hours to the back of his mind and focused on the play and it's players. "Terrific, Rico! You had the entire audience eating out of your hand!", refreshed Toulouse's memory: "Just remember, the line is 'She loves you, I know she does'; you'll be fine I know it!", and gave out many hugs to the girls as they came offstage between dances.

"Did you see me, M'sieur James? Did you see my solo?"

"Yes, and you were splendid, Babydoll! Beautiful job, Travesty! That pirouette was stunning! Keep it up, girls, keep it up!"

And when he wasn't handing out hugs and cues and encouragement he watched the show from the wings as it unfolded. The entire play proceeded beautifully, beyond even his wildest dreams.

For a few precious moments at a time he actually managed to lose himself entirely in the story that had just days ago had been mere typewritten words on paper. It was as if he was the boy of eight once again, attending the theater for the very first time in the company of his beloved uncle; as if it were not his own play being performed, brought fully to life in color and light, in song and movement, in endless whirling spectacles that turned the playwright into a delighted spectator.

Only when Satine rushed offstage to fix her makeup or refasten her headdress did the ugliness of reality crash down rudely upon him again and he was reduced to the role of "worried lover": "You were wonderful darling…why don't you sit down and rest…are you feeling all right?…you look a little tired."

"Nonsense! I feel like I'm soaring! The doctor's medicines are very efficacious!" She'd wave him away with a laugh, blotting the perspiration from her face before the make-shift dressing table set up in the wings. Her eyes were large and bright, almost too bright even in the dim backstage, the boy thought ruefully. "Can you hear them, Chris? Can you hear the applause? They love us! We're a hit!"

"Yes, darling, now try to take a little breather before you go back –"

"_Bring my harem before me and I shall select the most beautiful amongst them as my bride!"_

"There's my cue!" She'd ruffle Christian's hair affectionately before whirling away again, already focused on her next scene.

And then he would take up his spot in the wing and lose himself in the onstage spectacle all over again. The entire production was pitch-perfect, a splendid, shimmering vision. Satine held center stage effortlessly, a mesmerizing column of ice and flame; her pale, delicate femininity provided a sharp contrast to her virile, bronze, leading man. For once everything truly was, as Harold might say, going so very, very well; splendidly, in fact. Or at least until…

"Christian!" Toulouse's lisping voice called out with a tone of panic that no one at the Moulin had ever heard in it before. "It's Rico, he's - oh my, this is not good!"

The poet rushed to the rear of the offstage area and discovered that Rico – the same tango-dancing leading man who had burned up the stage with Satine in his arms or in his astonishing solos just moments before - was now slumped unconscious on the floor backstage, and just precious minutes remained before he had to go out again for the play's climatic scene. For once, Toulouse was right – this was decidedly _not_ opportune timing.

The little painter could barely move his legs inside the restrictive costume of the magical sitar but he could move his arms and did so wildly, waving them about in frantic circles and all the while clutching a bottle of acid-green liquor. "We were just talking, just now – he seemed perfectly fine and then –"

"Hush, Toulouse, and get some help!" Looking at his friend's costume, Christian thought the better of that. Looking about he caught sight of a nearby stagehand, a freckled lad in patched knickers. "You there, young man - Pierre, isn't it?"

The boy straightened and shoved his cap into his pocket deferentially. "Maurice, m'sieur."

"Maurice, yes, go and fetch the doctor at once!"

"Doc Halevy?" the lad asked.

"No, no, Doctor Peltenberg, the Duke's physician."

"Who? What's 'e look like?" the lad asked.

"He's a tall, dignified, sandy-haired gentleman in an evening suit," the poet answered. "He has a full mustache and he wears a monocle over his left – no his right – over one of his eyes."

Maurice canted his head quizzically. "That sounds like most all of 'em out there, M'sieur James – the gentlemen particularly – "

"Will you please just fetch the man at once?" Christian urged, before turning his attention back to Rico's inert form. Chocolat and Petomaine had meanwhile propped the tango dancer in a nearby chair and were making vain attempts to revive him.

The commotion backstage caught the attention of Harold, who strode over despite the fact that the Maharajah was meant to be back onstage in less than a minute. "I knew he would be trouble from the first! I told Marie, 'Marie, you just mark my words, that Argentinean fellow –' "

"Harold, please be quiet!" the poet barked in a tone few (save Nini and Mome) ever heard from _him_ before. "I need to think."

The stage manager's voice tore through the chaos: "Maharajah, you're on now! Courtesan and Sitar Player, on in five!"

"Oh my goodness!" Harold whirled on his heels and rushed back to towards the stage, but not before pausing to give one last look at the unconscious leading man and the distraught writer/director. "Boy, you'll have to come up with an alternative. And just when everything was going –"

"As you should be – go!" Christian's irritation had been set and honed to a fine edge as he dismissed the impresario with a backward flip of his hand.

Marie had made her way through the thick of the milling crowd, for it seemed that every performer and crew member who was not meant to be onstage or doing something else at that moment had found a reason to gather around the fallen actor. "Out of my way, out of my way," she hissed. "What the – oh, the Devil take 'im!" she sighed, at the sight of the hapless Argentinean. "All right, everyone, back off, give the man some air!" She waved her hand imperiously and the crowd stepped back – exactly one step – moving as if the various members had suddenly fused into one being. Marie shrugged as she observed Chocolat striking the fallen man's cheek gently with his fingertips. "That ain't the way to do it; 'ere, watch me."

She wound her arm back and hit Rico's cheek dead-on and with more force than Christian would have thought possible for a woman of her advanced age – any age, for that matter – to deliver. The resulting open-handed slap nearly resounded over the sound of Harold's voice booming from the other side of the curtain: _"Let us all rejoice and give thanks to the gods, for today I will be joined in blessed union with my beloved!"_

The blow seemed to have the desired effect, however, for the Argentinean raised his head slowly, as if an unseen puppeteer was pulling it up on an invisible string. The man's kohl-lined eyelids fluttered while his lips moved slightly as he murmured something in unintelligible Spanish – or what Christian guessed to be Spanish.

Toulouse clamped a hand excitedly on Rico's shoulder. "Ah, there you are, my friend; you had us worried – "

The Argentinean's eyes flicked back and forth as if trying to find their focus in the dim light. "No problem," he asserted in a hazy tone of voice; "everyone back to w…" and then his chin fell back down on his chest as if the phantom puppeteer had let the strings go slack. A collective groan of disappointment rose up from the gathered crowd and echoed the collective laughter of the audience on the other side of the stage.

Nini had meanwhile come offstage and worked her way to Rico's side, pushing through the crowd with a great deal of effort. "Get out o' my way! Are you deaf and dumb? Step aside and let me through if you know what's good for you!" She made her way to Rico's chair, headdress considerably askew, and knelt beside him, shaking his collar. "Oh, c'mon, you bastard, this ain't no time to be lightin' out on us now!" She dropped to her knees and whispered in his ear, "It's almost over, your big scene's coming!"

"_Courtesan and Sitar Player on in five! Courtesan, you're on in -"_

"Yes, I know that," Satine's voice echoed somewhere in the background, although Christian could not see her nearby, "but where is Rico? I can't go on without – what's that, Bernard? He's what? Where? Where is he?" She strode into the poet's view from the central rear of the stage, and pausing only briefly when she saw the knot of people around Rico's chair.

At the sound of her coming the other players abruptly scattered like leaves in a violent gust; even Nini took a step back to let Satine through; though not, the poet guessed, out of deference. Whether Satine took note of this or not she gave no indication, or at least none that Christian could detect. "_Mon dieu_! Will you all stop staring at the poor man and fetch the doctor?"

"He's already been sent for," Chris informed her.

"_Today the gods will witness and give blessing to my victory…" _Harold bellowed on the other side of the curtain.

"Marie shook her head. "There ain't no time for that now. Darn it all, what a fine time he's picked -"

"He can't 'elp 'imself!" Nini retorted defensively while Satine nodded in agreement, to Christian's amazement – and evidently to Nini's as well by the expression on her face.

"Nini's right, Marie, he can't help his sickness. Please keep that in mind. We're fortunate he's made it this far; give him credit for that at least." Satine looked directly at Christian. "But we have to do something; Harold's inventive, but even he can keep stalling onstage for only so long."

Chris rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Then we'll just have to find someone to take his place. Who else knows the lines, eh?" He looked around at a sea of puzzled or blank faces, more than half of whom were female anyway and of no use in this predicament. _Unless we could get Travesty_, he mused inwardly, _but she's onstage right now… _"Come on now, somebody must know the part!"

"You do, Christian." Satine's voice was quiet but firm as she stepped towards the poet. "You know every word of the play by heart."

"Me?" the boy squeaked. "Oh, I couldn't – I can't – I'm just the writer, not an actor!"

"Yes you can, and you must." Satine nodded to Chocolat and it was but the work of a moment for Chocolat to peel the Sitar Player's coat white brocade coat off of Rico and throw it around Christian's shoulders. "You're the only one who can."

"Brilliant idea, my queen!" Toulouse waddled over the boy as best he was able and assisted Christian's arms in their unwilling journey through the long coat sleeves.

"_Let the proclaimation ring out to even the lowest denizens of the land…"_

"Satine, I can't – this is insane! I'm telling you I'm not an act-" He scanned the faces around him, at the dancers who gazed at him hopefully, until his eyes fell upon Nini, standing in the back of the circle. Her expressively lifted brow challenged him to refuse; he could almost hear the words she dare not voice in Satine's presence: _"What's a little thing like goin' onstage compared to lettin' the Duke stretch your arsehole?"_

"All right then," he nodded and a cheer went up amongst the players as Chris found himself being hastily swabbed with make-up by Marie before Satine grabbed him by the wrist. They strode together toward through the narrow corridor of curtains behind the backdrop, to "the golden doors" meant to reveal the Sitar Player and Courtesan.

"This is going to be the shortest stage career in recorded history," Chris chuckled ruefully. "What will the audience think?"

"Doesn't matter," Satine shrugged. "Harold will think of something to say to cover for it – he's very clever – and we just have to play along."

Christian recited his dialogue experimentally. " 'This woman is yours now…Thank you for curing me of my – _my fascination_…'? Hang it, now I understand how Toulouse feels."

"Don't worry about the line, just remember the emotions – you're furious with me, I've broken your heart, you want to throw the money – the money!" She paused in forward flight. "Did someone give you the money from the prop table?"

"Um, no." The boy dug through his pockets and came up with a few crumpled franc notes and the script curled in his back pocket. He tore a few pages from it and tossed the remainder aside.

"This will do," Satine nodded approvingly before leading him onward again.

"You do realize how insane this is?"

"More so than climbing an elephant to woo to a woman you've met only once?" She lifted her brows humorously. "You can do it; you did the entire play, my part included, for Toulouse and me, remember?"

"That was different, in private, this is in front of so many strangers – "

"It's no different, just a larger audience. You've heard them applauding out there. We've already won them over; and they want to love us. They want their money's worth. If you get nervous just – just imagine them sitting there naked. That's what Marie taught me when I started performing."

Her words had quite the opposite effect of what she'd no doubt intended, for the first image that came to the poet's mind was of the Duke himself, as naked as he had been the night before – and at the thought a snarl caught in the boy's throat and an angry sneer curled unbidden upon his lips.

Satine widened her eyes in surprise as the boy's hand tightened around her wrist. "Yes, that's it, use that anger! I've deceived you, and you – you wan -"

A mild cough rose up rebelliously in her throat, and all at once Christian's anger and thoughts of the Duke vanished altogether as she raised her hand to her mouth. "Satine, sweetheart?"

"It's nothing – just a tickle in my throat."

"_And now it's time to raise our voices in celebration…"_

"That's not nothing." He looked down at the back of her hand, now smeared afresh with a sticky red substance. "And that's not lip-paint. Where's that damned doctor?"

"_as the moment of union approaches, that the gods have blessed…"_

"Never mind him; the show –"

"_Open the doors, that my bride…"_

"-will go on," he whispered soothingly. Christian could see her struggling against her fear, trying to hold it at bay although a few fugitive tears rimmed her eyes however. He remembered at that moment why he had gone up those stairs the night before and why he would do it all over again and face and lay with a thousand demons if it bought her one more night on this earth. "You and me, together – our show, our ending."

"_Open the doors, I command ye…"_

She nodded gratefully although she pulled back a little when he tried to wipe her tears away. "Don't – I need those." She lowered herself to her knees before him. " 'Thank you for curing me of my _ridiculous obsession _with love'."

"I remember now."

"_Open the doors!"_


End file.
